


Interior Dynamics

by Reminscees



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Brief Spain/Belgium, Divorce, Drama, Drugs, F/M, M/M, Romance, Sex, Skins AU, Teenagers, They go to the beach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reminscees/pseuds/Reminscees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All of this happened, more or less. [..] The fucks, the fuck ups. Everything." </p><p>Arthur, Alfred, Francis, Matthew, Gilbert, Elizabeta, and all of the others, the beautiful and the damned, a whole young generation of something-teen assembled as if eternity were a curtain of the past.</p><p>(Inspired by 'Skins', a teenage drama, which says it all, really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur changed everything, again. 
> 
> He changed it before, and now, he changed everything Alfred thought he understood and believed in entirely once more.

 

Prologue.

All of this happened, more or less. The drugs and drinking, at least, are extremely true, although not plausible to people who are not like us. Those who would not do all of this again. I want to do it all again. The fucks, the fuck ups, everything. I'd do it all again. I would love to go on shining as brilliantly as always, as a brilliantly meaningless figure in this meaningless world on which we orbit.

I knew them all, the beautiful and the damned, a whole generation assembled as if eternity were a curtain of the past, and as though it seemed to life before an extraordinary future for these extraordinary people, of which an extract are mentioned in this story, some of whom are more beautiful than damned, although the best are always more damned than beautiful.

They were all mad, mad to live, made to talk, mad to be saved, delirious of everything at the same time, and we cemented our relationship to vicious talk, with holy lights that I saw flashing in their eyes from their excitement and their visions, like yellow Roman candles that explode like stars across the night sky, reflected in the broken mirror of reality. We walked down the street like that, before everything became so much sadder and perceptive and blank.

I fell in love with their courage, with their sincerity, and their flaming sense of self-respect and their lies, their beautiful, countless lies.

I believe in them, I believe in all that they stand for.

I love them, and that is the beginning of everything.

 

 

 

 

Chapter One: Everyone.

_In the summer of my seventeenth year, it all began. Of course, it had started long ago, perhaps when I moved down the street or sat next to one of them in trigonometry or slept next to them and felt secure and warm, but it all began in this time, this segment of my life, because everything in life starts but a beginning\- A beginning is different. Starts have finishes, but a beginning doesn’t have to end. A beginning is just plain different in the saddest, most tragic way, because sometimes  beginnings signify a horrible time. A death is a beginning, too, as I would find out in this year, this time of my life. _

_A beginning signals a segment, not matter how brief, in our life._

_This is the story of my segment because, in a way, this segment never ended. Sure- We all changed, time changes everyone, but these people, these characters, these personalities influenced my life so greatly that I cannot comprehend it. _

_I just can’t._

:::

“I suppose they all want dignity. That’s what they want. Everybody wants a little piece of dignity. Some recognition from the world.” Arthur began, staring forward, thinking, he was always thinking, Gilbert supposed, he was observing. He looked straight ahead, with a bored and blank expression, cigarette in one hand, and the other arm resting on his black skinny jean covered knee that was bent due to the position he was sitting in, perched on the stepped fence of red bricks, his equally black and plain t-shirt riding up slightly, only slightly showing his hipbone.

Gilbert found himself staring at it, and liked his lips before turning his head to look up at the sky. It was grey and cloudy, and it looked like it would rain any second. Beautiful September weather, he thought, September weather in a city. In the country, it was probably less dusty and the sky was clearer. Gilbert was the type of person who believed that wherever he was or whoever he was or was with, it was better in some other place with other people and a different personality.

“Dignity? Why do you say that, mon chére?” Francis questioned from behind him, dropping his brown leather messenger back and sitting down next to him with a sigh on the cemented red border around the green area in front of the excruciatingly _ugly_ grey concrete block of buildings of the school. He stole Arthur’s cigarette for good measure, earning only a bleak ‘ _Hey!_ ’ from Arthur as he struggled to retrieve it. Francis, noticing his defeat, smiled gently and placed it back into his expectant fingers and Arthur stared up at him, his dark eyebrows framing his eyes.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

“Well, want do you want in life?” Arthur continued, not looking at Francis, and instead continuing to smoke on his cigarette as Gilbert snorted in response.

“Right now, a falafel. Say, sugar tits, buy me one, would ‘ya?” Gilbert replied from Arthur’s left, turning his head to face him with a confused expression and a small grin that suited him too well.

Francis scoffed, “You have no delicacy in your tastes.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Listen, Frenchie! The wind is trying to tell you something...” Gilbert leaned over to Francis, gesturing with his arms wildly, and whispered, “ _Shut the fuck up_. Wow! Nature _truly_ is a miracle from our almighty Lord!”

“Ah, are you still taunting me for my escapade with my Religion teacher last semester? She was a _beauty_ , my dear. And I have a _famine_ for beauty.” Francis leant balance on the palms of his hands and looked up at the sky. “Why are we even here, _hm_? What _are_ we doing here? In front of this ugly building filled with ugly people. Where are the beautiful?” He gestured at the school building, with ounces of teachers and pupils seemingly marching into it, drawn to it for one reason or another.

“.. The beautiful and the damned.” Arthur spoke up in a hushed and deep tone.

“ _Pardon_?” Francis asked with a leering smile.

“‘ _The Beautiful and the Damned’_. It’s a book. A very good one, at that.”

“Ah, fuck off, Kirky. Don’t go all English Lit on my ass. Who the fuck cares?” Gilbert laughed.

“No one, but that doesn’t make it less important, does it? No one cares about your precious ‘ _5 Metres of Awesome’_.” Arthur replied with a laugh and gestured little air quotes around the euphemism, smoke behind torn between flowing into Gilberts face as he leant back from Arthur’s body and the open sky.

“Hey, don’t insult the cargo of a man! How much did you get over summer?”

“... That’s private.” Arthur sniffed daintily.

“Son of bitch, you probably got twice as much as I did because you butter your bread on both sides!” Gilbert laughed a little too loudly.

Arthur growled warningly, “ _Gilbert_.” Francis laughed shyly.

“You sleep on both sides of the bed. You trickle your dickle with both genderickles-“

Arthur hit his shoulder, and Gilbert shouted loudly, then snorted: “You-“

“ _Shut up_.” Arthur spoke, tearing Gilbert’s hair out as he violently tore his head to face his own.

“ _Hey_ , come on.” Gilbert sneered, tilting his head towards the building, and speaking in a hushed tone, “How about you show me how you and your _gays_ do it, hm? We can skip first period Chemistry and sneek-“

“Finish that sentence and I’ll cut both of your balls off.”

They were mere centimetres away from each other, and Gilbert smiled and closed his eyes, then sighed, “ _Man_ , that’s hot. One day, Arthur, one day...”

“I honestly don’t see why I would. You’re revolting.” Arthur stood, gathered his bag, and extinguished his cigarette on Gilbert’s torn and worn backpack. It smoked a little, Arthur pondered, and calmly watched it rise into the sky. He felt strangely jealous of smoke, it was always drawn to the sky, the free and open sky, and it always managed to get there, in the end.

Francis patted him on the back and followed Arthur, “I understand why Gilbert wants it. He is jealous, perhaps...” He snaked an arm around Arthur waist, which he promptly swatted away as he retracted his entire body away from Francis’s reach.

“Fuck off.” Arthur replied and adjusted his bag to walk faster.

“Yeah, man, have sympathy! You fucked him but you won’t fuck me? What does that say about our friendship? I though the UK was supposed to hate France and shit.“ Gilbert wheezed.

“Aw, leave it out. Ask that bird in PE class to shag you if you want it that badly. She’s been undressing you with her eyes since day one. I really can’t see why. She’s marvellous, that one. Do everything kind of girl, point of principle. However, I doubt you would have success. You’re revolting.” Francis hummed in appreciation at Arthur’s words as he scowled as he reply, and Gilbert laughed strikingly, although he coughed loudly soon after.

“Wait, Arthur, are you going to school?” Gilbert stopped walking and leered. Arthur sighed and turned to face him.

“It’s the first day, Gilbert. At least _try_. Unlike you, I am a model student. Honour-roll and all that bullshit. I need to have better grades that this one,” He gestured to Francis, “Or he’d never hear the end of it. And I’m not staying in this shit hole. I have plans.”

Gilbert promptly sat himself down in the middle to the green pathway.

After a pause, Francis laughed and asked, “What are you even waiting for?”

“A sign.”

“A sign.” Arthur repeated, and clearly stated what he thought of it.

“Yeah, duh. Listen- If something happens right here and now, gives me a reason to go to class, I’ll go. But until then, I’ll wait.” Gilbert said and sighed, relaxing in the open.

“Fuck it.” Arthur turned and began to walk forward but was abruptly stopped by an obstacle that sped past him, and he stumbled backwards a little, colourfully swearing his proud English words at it.

 _Oh_.

The obstacle, it seemed, was a bicycle.

A man was riding it, well, he wasn’t really a man.

He was a boy.

A young man.

He looked young, maybe he was Arthur’s age but he could pass for 16, a year younger than Arthur himself. Perhaps it was the ridiculous outfit, for his jacket was a bomber jacket with a patriotic number ‘50’ on the back and his hair was almost golden. His glasses looked like a default brand that his mother picked out for him many years ago, and his eyes reminded Arthur of the sky. They were incredibly hopeful.

Arthur hated that in a person. It meant they were good liars.

“ _Woah_ , sorry, man! I didn’t see you there! Are you okay? I really-” He began, running up to Arthur, who rubbed his arm which the boy’s bicycle grazed slightly. It bled a little, but Arthur couldn’t care less. The boy grabbed the arm a little too gently and stared up at Arthur, mouth open. Words didn’t come out.

 Arthur was positive he was gaping at him by now, but so was he, so it didn’t matter, did it?

“Ah- I-“ Arthur opened his mouth and shut it a couple of times. Gilbert stood up, laughing, and Francis gingerly walked around them.

“Wait-“

“I-“

“ _Arthur?_ ” He began again, leaning forward and looking deeply at Arthur. Arthur only stared as a response.

“ _Dude_ , you turned hot!” He continued, and at his point, Arthur’s eyes were comically wide, “You’re eyes are exactly the same, but your eyebrows!” He laughed. It was harmonious and sounded like birds.“You totally suit them now! _Damn_.”

“Arthur, do you not want to introduce your friend?” Francis spoke up, grinning smugly, and touching the back of the boy’s back with interest.

“He’s not my _friend_ -“ Arthur began, turning to face him but his arm still in his hand.

“Alfred F. Jones, true hero at your service!” He said with a salute, still holding his arm.

“ _Hello_.” Gilbert whistled, “Say, Alfred, what do you say we ditch first period and quickly go to the bathroom to-“

Arthur couldn’t help but agree, in a sense, with Gilbert’s words. Arthur would _gladly_ spend first period with Alfred, and Alfred alone, perhaps with Alfred alone in a tight, compressed, space, with a nearly-naked Alfred, or even better if-

“So how do you two know each other, _hm_?” Francis interrupted.

“I- We-“ Arthur began, trying to not look into Alfred’s too blue eyes again, but failing.

Alfred laughed loudly and finally, _finally_ , let go of his arm, a little too slowly. “I used to live down his street, when I was a kid. Then I moved back to America.”

“Ah, you’re American? Exotic.” Francis replied, attempting gentle conversation with the loud boy.

“‘ _Exotic’_? Why is that _exotic_?” Arthur sneered.

Alfred laughed as a response.

It was a nice sound and his body moved with it.

Tan. He was quite tan. And fit, too.

Arthur wanted to punch and kiss him at the same time.

Therefore, he did the next best thing that came to his mind. He walked away, head turned upwards towards the sky, and blinked once or twice, huffing out of anger and frustration, then focused his gaze on the building in front of him, trying to ignore the urge to turn around and look at Alfred, to see if he was standing there or following him, trying to ignore the feeling in his heart.

Arthur sniffed again, swung open the doors, shaking his head and scoffing again at the absurdity of the situation.

“Hey, Arthur!”

Don’t turn around, don’t look at him, don’t, _don’t, don’t, you don’t_-

Who gave Alfred the right to barge into his life?

“Wait up, man!”

Don’t, don’t-

_You don’t know-_

Who gave Alfred Fucking F. Jones the right to get himself invested in Arthur’s heart, his mind, his entire life, to disrupt everything he built his thoughts and dreams on?

_You don’t know me at all, you never-_

Who gave Alfred the right to do exactly that _again_?

 “Dude!”

Arthur slammed his locker open and inhaled sharply and the intrusion of a body leaning on the row of lockers next to him.

“You sure walk fast! So... do you mind if I take this locker?” Alfred began, all sunshine and bright, American smiles, sliding up closer to Arthur who was currently getting his own English books out of his locker. Arthur stopping his movement and looked up at him, eyes pointed at him from under his dark eyebrows, a look with such intensity it made Alfred want to slam him against the lockers and-

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

 “Look, I’m going to be graduating from here, and I want- I want to be friends, Arthur.” Alfred continued with a sigh, and the slant of his eyebrows and the tilt of his head made him seem vulnerable and a little sweet.

_Too good of a liar._

“I don’t have friends.” Arthur replied bluntly and slammed his locker shut.

“Then who are those guys?” Alfred continued with a defensive tone, moving his body to try and block Arthur from leaving, all while shake his head to gesture at Gilbert who laughed after tripping his shy classmate together with his long time fellow detention regular Mathias, as well as Francis, who was currently chatting up a young fellow French exchange student, with fair, blonde hair and bright eyes.

Francis claimed it was true love.

Fool. He only admires her from afar; she has a steady boyfriend back home.

“People I fuck occasionally.” Arthur answered, and Alfred blushed and looked at his shoes.

 _Cute_.

Arthur eyed him curiously and moved closer to him. Alfred did not retract.

“I- I know you want to be friends with me, or at least get to know me,” Arthur raised his eyebrows sceptically at Alfred’s words, “You definitely looked at earlier.”

“I look at lots of people. That doesn’t mean that I want to,” Arthur began and sneered, “‘Get to know them,’. Because, you see, the thing is,” Arthur pointed at the group of girls standing shyly at the corner of the hallway, with an Indian girl almost _squealing_ at Arthur’s motion, “They all want to get to know me too. People who got to know me seem to spread rumours that I’m quite nice to get to know.”

“Arthur-“

“You left me-“

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“ _You left me_ , so don’t promise me a forever. _Nothing_ lasts forever.”

Arthur breathed heavily and he saw Alfred visibly retract, as he swallowed, pushed up his glasses, and stared to his left.

 “So can I take this locker? I won’t have it forever. I’ll be graduating at the same time you are.” Alfred said after a pause, with a shy, almost sad smile.

Arthur swallowed thickly and looked down on the floor.

 _Fuck_.

“... You always do want you want, anyway. Why ask this time?”

“To be honest, I just wanted to have an excuse to talk with you. Anyway, what classes are you taking?” Alfred said, beginning to walk next to Arthur after jogging to catch up with him.

“You- You can’t be serious.” Arthur muttered, pushing past a slow walker in front of them in the crowded hallway.

“Jesus, Arthur! Give me a break! What did I do wrong this time?” Alfred all but shouted at him, spinning to walk backwards while facing Arthur.

“Don’t do small talk with me.” Arthur angrily said, eyebrows furrowed, and stopped walking, pushing Alfred onto a line of lockers and hissing at him, “I told you. We might have been best pals in the past, but that’s over. You left, I stayed. Big deal. I don’t owe you anything, okay?” Alfred gaped at him as he calmly walked away.

“When did you learn how to be such a dick?” He shouted after him. Arthur only laughed sharply as a response, and turned around the corner out of his sight.

Alfred sighed and let his head bang against the locker. He looked up at the ceiling and had to blink once or twice to not cry here and there.

Breath- As long as your breathing, you’re fine.

Fine. I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, _I’m fine_.

 _I’m fine_.

He swallowed thickly and dug around in his stars- and striped backpack for his time table.

Physics. Just numbers and logic and the infinite universe. Piece of cake. It was all easier to understand than Arthur, anyhow. Arthur was just- Arthur was layer and layers of complicated metaphors and innuendo and lust and protecting his vulnerability. Alfred wondered whether _his_ Arthur, his smiling, shining, hopeful Arthur from many years past that would run with him in the road in the sun, hair glistening like an angel, was still there.

Arthur used to be so happy.

Alfred wondered what had changed.

:::

After school, Arthur found himself sitting in his trademark spot on a Sir John Foster’s memorial bench. He didn’t know any Sir John Foster. He didn’t care. It was his bench now. And when he died, it would be someone else’s. So it goes. Arthur dug in his bag, placed neatly to his left at the edge of the bench, for a cigarette and a lighter. Upon finding it, he lit one and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and watching his surroundings. A flock of birds flew away. Children were screaming out of joy in the distance.

“Again? Dude, you’re like basically asking for lung cancer!”

_What exactly is this guy’s problem?_

Arthur opened his eyes sharply and turned his head to face Alfred, who, rather rudely, sat himself next to Arthur, legs rested and spread widely, hands in his jacket. He smiled at Arthur, all pearly white Hollywood teeth and bright eyes and broad shoulders and silky hair-

“Like you give a shit.” Arthur replied and took a drag of his cigarette. He stared forward.

“Maybe I _do_ give a shit.” Arthur didn’t look at Alfred this time. He felt Alfred’s gaze on him. It made his skin tingle.

“Someone said a bad word, I hope mummy and daddy won’t find out-“

“My dad left.” Alfred interrupted, looking straight ahead. His eyes were blank.

“... What?” Arthur leant forward, mouth agape.

“He left. They had a divorce. It was a mutual disagreement, happened when we moved back to the states. Mattie moved back here with mom before we did, and now I’m here. Work reasons and crap like that. Shit happens, I guess.” He laughed, but it sounded cold and empty, his entire body moving with the motion.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Alfred.” Arthur said, voice gentle and little rough.

“It’s okay,” Alfred replied, standing up, “Just- Think about that smoking thing, will ya? It’s robbing you blind, man.”

And with that, he left.

Arthur was left surprised and with a feeling in his heart he didn’t quite understand. Maybe, just maybe-

_Don’t feel._

_Don’t give yourself up._

_Don’t belong to anyone._

_ Call Francis. _

“ _Oui?_ ”

“Get over here. The bench, that is. And bring Gilbert and whoever else you find. I want to go to the pub.”

“ _Is it Alfred?_ ” Francis questioned, and Arthur could easily visualise the deep, sultry smile on his face in that very typical French manner in which Francis functioned, all politeness and charms, as well as expensive tastes and finding true love in every person he knew.

“Fuck off!” Arthur settled on, and exhaled sharply, looking up towards the sky again.

It was beginning to clear up slightly.

:::

“I hate him!” Arthur stood and shouted, pointed at Francis’s face, as well as a disinterested Gilbert, both of which were sitting on the bench in front of him, “I hate Alfred Fucking F. Jones!”

“But why, my dear? He’s charming-“

“And his stupid, perfect fucking face-“

“He’s so attractive-“

“And arse, and that stupid-“

“Polite. He’s polite, isn’t he Gilbert?” Gilbert nodded at Francis’s words in an exaggerated manner.

“That fucking bleedin’ _gorgeous_ Hollywood smile! And his laugh, Jesus, his _laugh_!”

“I think it’s charming-“

“It’s so loud! Why are all Americans so loud? I swear to-“

“You think I have a gorgeous smile?” A voice said from behind Arthur, causing him to freeze mid-sentence.

_Fuck it._

“I- No! What- I mean, yes! No, wait, no I don’t I- I didn’t say that it was! Fuck- Fuck you!”

“Hey, I only forgot my phone. Must have fallen down here, somewhere. At least, I hope so.” Alfred laughed, and looked around in the grass. Francis observed him as Arthur only grew more and more angry.

“Fuck you, Jones!”

 “Okay, you really need to chill, pissy-missy. Ah ha! Found it! Score!” Alfred loudly shouted as he pocketed his phone. Arthur swallowed and grinded his teeth at the noise.

“Hey, do you guys wanna go get something to eat?”, Alfred continued, “I’m starving! My treat if it’s Mc Donald’s!” He laughs.

Gilbert suddenly jumped up, and shouts, “Sure! Hells yeah! ‘My treat, young whippersnapper’, I’m down for that! Hey, star-spangled diamond, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. The name’s Beilschmidt. Gilbert Beilschmidt.”

And naturally, Alfred laughs.

:::

While Gilbert had eaten noisily and spoken with Alfred, Francis had toyed with his straw with a sly smile and graced the conversation as well, Arthur had been consistently staring, scowling in a way that frightened parents and children, teachers and pupils, at the fries in front of him.

“And then I says to this chick that she gives bad head, and it’s-“

“Jones, just tell me what you are doing.” Arthur interrupted Gilbert to speak up.

“... Eating?”, Alfred shrugs, “You guys seem interesting, and I’m new at school, so-”

“Jones, you don’t really get it, do you?”

“... Get what?”

“We’re not interesting. We’re rude and disrespectful. He’s a slimy frog,” Arthur explained, pointing at Francis with an accusing, angry pose, “Gilbert’s a parental alcoholic and drug-junkie nightmare, and I’m a manipulative, cynical man-whore. We smoke. We drink. Get that through your thick skull, and get back to your own life.”

_And stay away from mine. Don’t allow me to invest in yours. Don’t, don’t, don’t-_

“... The only reason I’m passing is because of Matthew.”Alfred starts, “You remember him, right? My bro? Wears that stupid beanie? Anyway, he’s been back since a while because of mom. He stayed with mom, and he lets me copy his crap.” Alfred laughs, and it sounds empty.

“If I’m lucky, he’ll even impersonate me and sits my exams! See, we’re not so different after all.” Alfred continued.

Arthur stares at him, looking directly into his eyes.

He stares back.

 _He stares back_.

“You really don’t- Just... fucking... ah, fuck it.” Arthur finalises, standing up, leaving an amused Francis, and confused Gilbert, and an even more confused Alfred.

:::

In the dirty and wet Mc Donald’s bathroom, Arthur stares at his reflection in the mirror.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

He inhales, and tries to calm himself, only to be interrupted by a gentle voice coming from near the door, but undoubtedly from inside the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” Alfred starts, and walks to be next to Arthur, looking directly at him. Arthur does not move.

_Jesus Christ._

Strangely, he’s not as annoyed as he would have been had it been Gilbert or Francis, or even Elizabeta or anyone else, really.

“I can’t exactly drown in here.” He finally says, and finds himself smiling a little shyly at Alfred’s far too polite manner of talking to him.

Arthur remembers that he hadn’t been invited or treated to anything for a long time, anything that wasn’t spliff or drinks, or something stupid like coke or-

“Yeah, yeah. Are you- Are you okay, though?”

Arthur wants to laugh.

“I’m fine. Hunky-fucking-dory. Absolutely peachy.”

“Okay... Hang on- Is that a tattoo?” Alfred moves forward and points excitedly at Arthur’s hipbone, exposed by his shirt riding up. Arthur quickly moves to cover it.

“Yeah.” He says slowly, shyly looking at Alfred, who is smiling brightly.

“Wow! How’d you get that done?” He asks, nearly bursting out of sheer, childish happiness, as though he discovered an incredible treasure.

 “I’m- I’m pretty much a mime around the house since my brothers graduating and are now doing _something_ , and Peter’s off at boarding school, so... Might as well.”

 “Makes sense.”

“I just want to get rid of mine. It’s stupid.”  Arthur says quickly.

“Why? It’s so awesome, man! Is it a crown, or what? I- I can’t exactly, ya know, look too closely...” Alfred blushes a little, and smiles a lopsided grin.

“It’s a crown. It’s the monarchy symbol of Queen Elisabeth. From those ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ propaganda posters. I thought it might help me, well, ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.” Arthur finished lamely, and scratches at the side of his forehead, a nervous tick Alfred remembers from his childhood.

_Please don’t ask for any other details. Please don’t invest yourself in my life._

 “Yeah, totally, I get it! Don’t worry, dude, it looks cool, not stupid.” Alfred smiles brightly at him, and then both of them are staring at each other again, deep in each other’s eyes.

_Was this normal?_

Maybe-

Maybe this was-

 _Nice_.

Maybe it would be alright to have a-

 “Did- Did we just have a conversation?” Alfred begins, hands in his pockets.

“What?” Arthur says, not looking away from his eyes. It’s as though he cannot break away from his gaze.

How dubious.

 “A conversation. Did we just have a decent conversation?”

“I suppose so.”

 “... Do you want to get something to eat sometime? Or got to my place after this? Just to... Just to hang out or whatever?”

“We’ve already eaten-“

“I mean, I already know everything about your friends, they’re so talkative! Weird and shit, but yeah, talkative! But.. uh.. I mean, I’d kinda... I don’t know much about you... So.” Alfred pauses, and Arthur stares, mouth opened, but nothing comes out, “Ah, forget it. I was just trying to- When I meet new people, and you count as a new person because I really don’t know anything about you, not anymore, and I try and impress ‘em, ya know? And ... I... I ... I just-“

 “Sure.”

 “... What?”

 “I’d like to go to yours. But- But only because my house is a boring shit hole! That’s all. So I’ll take whatever opportunity I can get.” 

_Why?_

The brilliant, shining smile Arthur receives is a miracle in his eyes.

_Ah. That’s the reason._

 “Yeah! Great! Come on, let’s go now!”

:::

Alfred house was entirely different than Arthur remembered, and it took him an embarrassingly long time to understand that _of course_ it was different, Alfred hadn’t moved back into his old one.

For that it was just for Alfred and his father, it was surprisingly large, with a spacious ground floor and the two bedrooms in the second floor. Alfred had excitedly given him a tour of his home, avoiding the moving boxes that were still in piles around the house. Arthur trailed behind him with a shy curiosity, mumbling a ‘Hm’ to whatever Alfred was going on about.

Alfred’s room was the exact opposite of Arthur’s own. It was just as crowded and messy as his own, sure, what else was expected of teenage boys? Perhaps that was the reason he always lost things.

But Alfred’s room was brighter, it was so very Alfred. There were maps of stars and other space- related images, and stars stuck on the ceiling, which was slanted, and had-

Planes hung from it.

 _Planes_.

Arthur stopped glancing around the rest of the room, his gaze drawn to them, a variety of paper planes hanging from slim, plastic string, and Arthur moved his head closer to them to observe them in detail. He dropped his bag on the floor, and simply looked at them in utter fascination.

“What are these?” Arthur spoke, turning his head to look at Alfred.

“Those? Oh,” Alfred laughed and scratched the back of his neck as Arthur observed them, “Those are my planes. You see, I- I collect them. They’re World War Two planes. Like models, not real ones, obviously, those would be _way_ too big-”

“Ah.” Arthur said, standing up and looking into Alfred’s eyes.

“... You probably think I’m a massive loser now, don’t you?”

“No.” Arthur replied earnestly, “I don’t. I think it’s interesting. RAF, and all that? _‘We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall never surrender’_?” He finished with a sharp smile and proud look in his eyes that made Alfred want to sink into his body.

_Wait, what?_

 “I’ve got Spitfires here,” He finally said in an excited tone, as he gestured to the planes, with Arthur following him, “And a Mossie! And this is a Lancaster. I’ve got _oodles_ more but- Yeah. You- You probably only know the British ones.”

“Don’t make me sound so undignified. I’ll have you know that most of the planes were a joint effort of the British _and_ the Americans.” Arthur snorted.

“Are you implying something about our war effort? Lend-lease ring a bell? Is this an offensive remark to the best, most glorious and totally awesome nation on this planet?” Alfred leaned towards Arthur with a laugh.

“Not at all. I really don’t wish to argue with you about it, Jones. It’s just- You know-  If you’re interested, I’ve got some... Never mind, it’s silly.” Arthur began, and stopped himself shaking his head.

“I am! Come on, it can’t be worse than _model planes_.” He joked with a laugh, and rejoiced when Arthur’s reply was a snort of amusement.

“Point taken.” Arthur said with a laugh, and coughed awkwardly before continuing slowly, watching Alfred’s face as he spoke, “I’ve got some...  books at home. You can- You can borrow those, if you want. Both fiction and non-fiction.” Arthur swallows thickly and stares at the floor.

Luckily, Alfred doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t spit in his face or anything like that, all he does it chuckle and reply, “You’re still like a walking library, ain’t ya?”,with a smile so sweet and gentle it makes Arthur think horrible, _horrible_ sensitive, _romantic_ things.

 _Ridiculous_.

He hardly even knows him.

 “Probably, by your standards.” Arthur finally says after clearing his throat, “I see that your knowledge and interest in literature is still sparse.”

“I like space, not Shakespeare.” Alfred says proudly, jutting his chin in Arthur’s face, who recoils slightly, but quickly places a smug grin on his face.

“What about Shakespeare,” Arthur says, moving towards Alfred to whisper in his ear, breath hot on Alfred neck and cheek, “In space.” He finishes, smiling smugly, and Alfred’s sure he’s not breathing anymore, figuring that his heart is beating so fast he could die and his muscles feel numb-

 _What_.

He does what he does best.

He laughs.

This time, Arthur laughs with him.

:::

Surprisingly, Arthur is a lot less of a douche than he is at school with Francis and Gilbert, and a hell of a lot nicer than Alfred thought he was. After talking some more standing in the middle of Alfred’s room, Arthur awkwardly shuffled around and eventually, they settled on both of them sitting on the floor, leaning their backs against Alfred’s bed, which is spread in the edge of the room, where the roof is at its smallest and his planes are hung.

They had exchanged phone numbers and talked about their summers and about sex and girls and everything, really. They talked about family and the universe, and about how much everything used to be better, and how they will get better in the future, at everything, really. Become better people, have better dreams.

Alfred is lost.

Arthur is really-

This is nice.

 _He’s_ nice.

He has a nice laugh, too, and nice eyes, and a nice ass-

_Damn it._

“... And then I says to Gil while he’s fucked on spliff that his fly is undone and he just _loses_ it. ‘Course, Elizabeta is there to take him home and shit. She’s a great girl.” Arthur finishes, taking a tug from his cigarette.

“Really? Guess I gotta meet her.” Alfred replies.

That came out wrong- It sounds so _straight_.

“She’s marvellous. Absolutely great. Only, she’s desperately infatuated with dear Gilbert. Both of them are. The only problem is that, well,” Arthur says, looking strangely sad and slowing his speech, “He doesn’t belong to anyone. _We_ don’t belong to anyone. And never will.”

“Doesn’t- Doesn’t that hurt her?”

“I suppose it does. Hurts too good, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Alfred mumbles, and leans his head back against the bed. He draws his eyes closed, only for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, and again, Alfred finds himself lost in the surprisingly kind tone of his.

“I’m fine.” He settles on, in a bright tone, looking at Arthur and grinning at him.

“That’s what they all say.” Arthur continues, smiling back at him, just a little bit, “And then they’re off the rails because they’re dad’s fucking his secretary or they don’t eat anymore, shit like that.” Alfred snorts at Arthur’s disapproving tone, and they lapse in a comfortable silence.

“What do you want to do?” Alfred speaks up, sitting up and looking at Arthur again.

His eyes are very green.

“What?” He questions, irritated yet amused.

“What do you want to do? Like, when you’re done with school?” Alfred repeats.

“Don’t know. Want to get out of here, I suppose.” Arthur says and Alfred nods, wanting to reply, but Arthur quickly stands up, lifting his body. Alfred can’t help but stare again.

“Where you going?” Alfred shouts after him as Arthur staggers in the small hallway outside of Alfred’s room.

“Toilet. I’m assuming your dear father doesn’t approve of cigarette butts? And if I were you, I’d grab some of her perfume and your deodorant and spray that shit around before she gets home.” He shouts from the bathroom, and upon returning continues, “Should have done it outside. Sorry. It’s my job to ruin everything, innit?”

“Please,” Alfred says in an honest tone, getting up to stand next to Arthur, “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re super fun! We should do this again sometime soon.”

 _Soon_.

“Yeah.” Arthur agrees quietly, grabbing his bag from next to his feet, “I guess I should- I’d better...” He begins, gesturing his head to signify his intent of leaving.

“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Alfred says, as he walked downstairs with Arthur in silence.

“I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow?” Alfred begins, standing inside at the door.

“Yes.” Arthur says bluntly in a sigh.

“Do- Do you maybe- Ah, this’ll sound dumb.” Alfred stops himself, waving his hand.

“What? No! Say it!” Arthur says with a breathy laugh, and shoves Alfred’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay!”, Alfred defeats, “Do- Do you- Can I- Can I sit next to you tomorrow? If we have any classes tomorrow, or lunch... I just- I just don’t want this to end. This was fun.”

“... Okay. But only because, well, you’re better than half of the idiots I know.”

“Really?” Alfred says with a little jump, and Arthur nods in confirmation, biting his lips to stop smiling.

“Thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ ” Alfred hugs Arthur and swings him a little with his force, “I was really scared you’d ditch me because you’re _so_ cool and I’m so...”

“... You’re so ‘model Second World War planes’?” Arthur says with a smile, pulling reluctantly away from Alfred’s grip to look at him, although his arms remained around him, so it was effectively useless in receiving personal space.

“... Basically, yeah.” Alfred settles on after a while.

“Hm.” Arthur resolves, and silent results. Alfred slowly lets Arthur go, and both boys avoid eye contact with a fluttery feeling in their chests, light heads, tingling fingers-

 _Fuck_.

Arthur swallows thickly.

“Goodbye, Alfred,” He says, and it sounds strangely strangled for a person as quick witted with sharp words as strong as Arthur’s, “I’ll- I’ll see you at college.”

“See you,” Alfred says with a smile, “ _‘D-D-Don’t you, forget about me.’_ ” Alfred sings behind him, and Arthur can’t hide the sharp laugh he makes as he walks away from the door.

:::

The next day at school, Alfred is lost at words for the second time since he started the year. His first period is English, which he has together with Arthur. He sits down at a desk, in a seat next to Francis, who he greets with a bright “Hey!” and only gets a mature sounding “ _Bonjour_.” in return. The seat to Alfred’s left is empty, and he places his bag on the chair, in hopes that Arthur will sit there.

The strange thing is- He does.

When Arthur enters the classroom, he’s one of the last to do so, so maybe he just doesn’t have another choice of seating arrangement. Arthur asks politely whether the seat is free, and then sits down, much to Francis’s amusing as he makes a distasteful snort.

But who cares about whether Arthur was forced to or not?

He did.

And that’s all that matters.

Arthur doesn’t speak to him during the lesson, and maybe it’s because he’s genuinely interested in ‘ _Hamlet’_ , or maybe he thinks it’s awkward or embarrassing.

All that is lost when Alfred draws his attention to the fact that their arms are touching.

Out of habit, Alfred placed his forearm on the table, and Arthur’s own was pressed against his.

He could feel Arthur’s goose-bumps on his skin.

He quickly spun his head to look at him, but all he saw was Arthur delicately, in a gentle and graceful manner, close his eyes, open them again, opening his mouth a little as though he were almost about to lick his lips but chose against it, and shyly looked back straight-ahead, doing the typical look.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

Arthur smiled shyly, closing his eyes again, biting his lips in restraint to smile, but Alfred missed it, as he swallowed thickly, and drew his head back forward.

Francis leaned forwards, acknowledging the contact, and nodded a little, before looking at Alfred, who, upon sensing his stare, looked at him, pulse feathery and head light, as Francis smiled sweetly.

Perhaps it was an accident.

Alfred hoped it was not.

The rest of the lesson didn’t matter, or at least, Alfred believed so, because he simply couldn’t pay any attention to it, not after Arthur’s sensitive, gentle, caring opening of his fractured and beautiful soul.

_You don’t know me-_

:::

“ _Pick up, pick up... No, don’t pick up_ \- Jesus. Francis?”

_“... Quoi? Arthur? It is I, not the holy Son. Why are you calling so late? Did something happen?”_

“You know exactly what happened, frog. It’s Jones, fuck him! Fuck Jones! God, I hate him-“

_“Do you?”_

“Of- Of course I do!”

_“... Arthur. You are lying to yourself. Have you been drinking?”_

“I’m not drunk! I’ve- I’ve... Oh God...”

_“Arthur, you are crying, non?”_

“Fuck- Fuck you! I’m not! I- I- Fuck Jones!”

_“... Arthur, it is not bad to have a friend, someone who cares... You should allow him into your life. He is good-“_

“How do you know that? How? He left me-“

_“He didn’t know what would happen-“_

“No! He did! He never- He never wrote to me or anything. Nothing! And now- Now he’s waltzed in here like he thinks he knows me-“

_“He does. You are lying to yourself.”_

“You don’t understand it, do you? You don’t know anything. You’re a fool, Francis, nothing but a fool.”

_“Arthur... It is late. You are tired. Calm yourself, please, mon ami, for me. Do you want me to come over?”_

“.. No. I just- I just-“

_“I understand.”_

“... Thank you.”

_“For what?”_

“For loving me.”

_Beep beep beep._

:::

“Arthur! _Geil, alter!_ _Was_ \- What are you doing here? Have you thought about me,” Gilbert begins in his inane matter, leaning against his door frame, shirtless and in boxers, one eyebrow raised as he leans towards Arthur and continues in a dirty whisper, “Have you thought about my offer?”

“Actually, I have.” Arthur replies, unfolding his arms, stepping towards him, “Not so much about you, per se, but about your offer. I’ll take you up on it. Don’t get this wrong- You’re still revolting. But I would be so very pleased if you could take me upstairs and fuck me.”

:::

 “‘ _It was cold, and it rained, and I felt like an actor..._ ’” Alfred hummed to himself, walking next to his bicycle down the wet street in the rain, his hoodie covering his face.

David Bowie was English, wasn’t he?

_Like Arthur._

Arthur the mysterious. Arthur, the magical, incredible, complicated being, layered in complex emotions and coated metaphors to hide affections and express a strong dissatisfaction with almost everything. Arthur, the boy now turned young-man, who truly changed everything about him but in fact, he remained the same, because it’s hard to forcefully change your personality and although Arthur tried, he failed, because Alfred fell into Arthur, into all of Arthur’s words and coyness, cynics and sharp laughs, and just all of _Arthur_ all over _again_.

Perhaps it was love.

But it was a well-known fact that Alfred was straight. He liked girls. He liked their smooth lips and curved bodies, although Arthur had a wonderful, elegant curve to his spine-

 _Damn_.

Arthur changed everything, _again_.

He changed it before, and now, he changed everything Alfred thought he understood and believed in entirely once more.

 

Light from a window of a small house, two stories and slim, catches his eye.

He stops moving, and stares up.

 _Arthur_.

 

It’s Arthur, standing, in a shirt too large on him that proudly proclaims support for a German football team, and his front faces the window, intense eyes staring directly at Alfred.

From his gesture, it’s as though he were scared, frightened of Alfred, and he gasps a little, opening his mouth slightly and releasing a shaky breath, as a figure approaches him from behind.

 

Gilbert brushes his hand on Arthur’s neck, and smiles crookedly down at Alfred.

 

Arthur closes his eyes, only to open them again and look at Alfred once more with a solid determination.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will continue! Do not fret, my dears. More gayness and romance and drama to come. Ha, get it? 
> 
> This is really long and the ending is rushed, but I thought it would be better to have a suspenseful ending. 
> 
> Please note that the next chapters will feature other characters too. As much as I love my favourite gay babies, Elizabeta, Francis, Matt, Gil, and co. are too cool not to examine in detail. Updates might take a while because I want the chapters to be perfect and quite long... I’ve got the story mapped out in my head, though. 
> 
> Score.
> 
> Also- Remember to point out any grammatical mistakes. English is not my mother-tongue, so I have my worries.


	2. Gilbert.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because it’s us, isn’t it? Me, you. Best friends for life.” 
> 
> Gilbert was blind to the truth.
> 
> He was also a very good liar.
> 
> It hurt himself more than anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early recommendation-
> 
> Listen to this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1CNNf9iU9Y when they get into the club, near the beginning of the chapter. 
> 
> Skip to approx. 8 or 9 minutes in if you're a fast reader, the climax is super duper cool.
> 
> It might seem weird, but it has metaphors and thoughts that connect it to the story.
> 
> I listened to it while I wrote it, so I hope I got the feeling across.
> 
> Thank u ilysm okay thank u

Chapter Two: Gilbert.

_At first, we were ordinary._

_We never wanted to be incredible people, to be infinite, to be remembered, to be heroes._

_We never knew that we needed a hero._

_I guess that we did, because we were fucked up in all of the sense of the word._

_Alfred F. Jones was not a hero._

_But he tried so damn hard to be one._

_I envied that._

_I wanted to save everyone, too, but in the end, I just ruin everything I touch._

:::

“Hallelujah.” Gilbert said, putting out his cigarette before squinting a little due to the brightness of the sun as he turned his head to look at up Elizabeta, who stood next to him on the dirty, stained sidewalk on which Gilbert was resting.

“What?” She questioned, digging her hands deeper in her parka.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” He replied, wheezing as he got up, with Elizabeta watching him curiously, “It would be sad, you know, if you didn’t, princess. A birthday boy without his girl...”

“I’m not ‘yours’, Gil. Stop being such a fucking cliché.” She answered, looking around herself. Her black sneaker clad feet shifted nervously.

“Where are the others?” Elizabeta questioned after a while, hair tied in a ponytail but despite this, it blew in her face, and after trying to move it with breath and some small amount of spit, she had to take one of her hands out of her pockets to adjust a stray piece back into place.

“‘Dunno. Probably all hate me,” Gilbert replied, and leaned towards her to whisper dirtily in her ear, “And you know why? I fucked Kirkland.”

“... What?”

It pained her.

It pained him.

“ _You_ fucked _him_? Are you sure that he didn’t fuck you?” She questioned again after minutes of staring at him in utter confusion.

“Come on, princess. Do you think I’m _gay_?” He sneered, saying the word as an insult.

“Getting your dick in his ass is pretty gay too, Gil.” She replied calmly, turning away from him and walking away, “Think about it.”

“Wait,” He began, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her body towards him again, watching her sigh as she grudgingly complied, “I’m not gay. I’m not ‘seeing him’ or any bullshit like that. I just fuck him occasionally. That’s what he says too.”

Elizabeta bit her lip and looked down on the floor, eyes hooded, before questioning, “Is he coming?”

“What?”

“Is he coming to this little birthday party of yours?” She repeated, gesturing to the pub behind them.

“Yeah, ‘course he is! Loads of people are coming: Francis and that girl, Joan or Julia or something like that, she’s got great tits, and that American. Uh, oh yeah, and everybody’s favourite Antonio, and that weed guy and his sister. I don’t think he’s coming. But _she_ probably is. You know Emma, right? Great tits.” Gilbert finishes, as he begins to walk towards the pub.

“Why are you such an asshole, Gil?” Elizabeta settles on, looking at him with a distant undertone.

 _Huh_.

“I can be nice,” He complies as he opens the door for her, “See?”

The scoff is the last noise he hears before the uneventful and unexcited exclamation of ‘ _Happy birthday!_ ’ in a variety of tones and from a variety of people, usually having individual colourful swearwords to refer to Gilbert, who smiles, shouts loudly and raises his hands in approval.

The pub is small, slightly dark and cramped, with an overtone of beige, a pale yellow, and dark maroon as an accent due to the red chairs and door. With odd pictures on the wall, the only other artefacts of interest are the bar, which is sparse and coated in thin dust, some balloons, and the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner which features a piece of cardboard, ripped and stuck with masking tape, underneath it, ‘Gilbert’ added in scrawling handwriting.

Gilbert sits himself down loudly next to Francis, with Elizabeta politely sitting herself down on the other side of Gilbert. He quickly snatches the pint of beer in front of a scowling Arthur, and drowns it in one go. He then promptly shouts at the girl at the counter to get another, as well as shots of Tequila for everyone. Gilbert looks at the group in satisfaction, before noticing that it’s only Francis, smiling at the young lady at the bar, Elizabeta, angry as ever at Gilbert, Arthur, angry as ever at everyone in general, Alfred, smiling awkwardly, and Antonio, who is staring at his thumbs, as well as Emma, who is picking at her polished fingernails, loudly popping gum.

“... Where the fuck is everyone?” Gilbert asks, demeanour serious.

“‘Dunno.” Emma replies, after a moment of silence, “Look, you don’t mind if I go, do you? I’ve got other things to do. And this,” She pauses, gesturing at the pub, “Is a _shithole_. I just waited for you, really. Happy birthday, I guess, but honestly? This really is a _shithole_.”

“I take great offense in that, sugar tits.” Gilbert says, leaning towards her with a sweet smile, “But do as you want. It’s my birthday. So fuck y’all.”

Emma sorted, stood up, heels clicking and ignoring Elizabeta’s distasteful stare, and opened the pub door with a slow creek, but closed it with a sharp bang, only to open it again and shout loudly, “ _Antonio_! Either you leave with me, or go fuck a horse!”

Antonio laughs shortly as all gazes drop on him, and he slowly stands up and joins her at the door, mumbling apologies as she leads him out of the pub in a final motion.

“Thanks man, thanks _very_ much. What’s next? Oh yeah. More drinks! More drinks! More drinks, more drinks, more drinks!” Gilbert chants as bangs his palms on the table.

“... He’s already had half a bottle of vodka.” Elizabeta speaks up, voice muffled due to her biting the side of her thumb while doing so, a nervous habit of hers.

“Really?” Arthur answers, in a typical sarcastic manner, “How crazy.”

Elizabeta snorts distastefully.

_This could be interesting._

“Arthur...” Alfred tries to tame.

 “Shut up.” Arthur replies, tone final, as Francis chuckles mildly.

Silence results.

“Gilbert, in celebration of your life, I have indeed made you a _gateau_.” Francis says after a pause, and presents a deep brown cake, “Double chocolate. With ‘Grand Manier’ in it, naturally.”

“Oh, sweet! Thanks, fucker!” Gilbert says, hitting Francis on the back before taking a large piece out with his bare hand and delectably shoving it in his mouth, saying ‘Mhm’ in approval as he chews. He continues to do so, much to the horror of Francis and the amusing of the others, while Arthur smiles shyly, later even laughing lowly, and obviously, Alfred loudly laughs with him, highly amused by his antics. Elizabeta merely scowls in distaste.

“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing.” Elizabeta says, utterly disgusted.

“Well, someone had to get this party started.” Gilbert replied, sending a grin at her, but missing the pained look in her eyes as he did so.

“Party? Merde, this is not a party.” Francis spoke up, chuckling quietly, “This is, as Emma said, a shithole _indeed_ , dear friend.”

“Come on, guys! Hey, bald eagle.” He gestured to Alfred, who turned his head towards him quickly in surprise.

“Do you think this party is shit?” Gilbert says, gaping rudely at Alfred.

“It could be-” He began hesitantly, looking at Arthur for confirmation.

 _“It’s shit.”_ Arthur voiced surprisingly, arms folded and scowling at Gilbert, who paid him no notice and instead decided to stand up quickly and leave, closing the pub door with a slam.

Upon seeing Alfred’s worried look, Elizabeta voiced an explanation over yet another scoff from Arthur, “He gets angry. It’s best to leave him for a while.”

:::

Outside, Gilbert flew his arms next to him and shouted at the sky, which has changing, quickly, in a painful yet beautiful manner. It began to rain, and Gilbert screamed in uproar as the cold bullets hit his skin.

“Something’s gotta happen, man.” He said, gesturing to the sky with one hand, “Something big. Just give me a sign, would ya?”

A roll of thunder was his answer.

:::

“Right,” Gilbert said loudly as he entered the pub, soaked wet to the bone, “I’ve got it. I know where sugar tits and her Mexican man went.”

“He’s not Mexican, Gil-” Francis tried to voice, moving his jaw tiredly as he rested his head in the palm of his head, elbow fixed on the wooden table.

“Don’t care.” Gilbert replied, “They’re assholes. I cordially invited them to this bazinga birthday and they ditched us. Just posted the location on Instagram, the fuckers. It’s underground and top-secret shit, dumb fuckers. ”

“And why, pray, do you grace us with such information?” Arthur said in a bored and oddly deep tone.

The shots of tequila Gilbert ordered were on the table, a placate of empty glasses affirming Gilbert’s suggestion of a general drunkenness from everyone.

 _Perfect_.

“I wanna crash it.” Gilbert announced in a dramatic whisper, flailing his hands around.

“I’m in.” Alfred said after a moment of silence and half-drunken awing at Gilbert’s proposal.

:::

“Gil, please, you- you don’t even know him. Listen to me.” Elizabeta repeated while walking in a not-quite straight line behind Gilbert, who abruptly stopped walking as he reached his destination, a seemingly harmless metal container-like building, loud music being heard even outside it, “We’re not going.”

“Listen, fate has got himself into this. Fate is telling me to go in there. He’ll be angry if I refuse.” Gilbert replied, inching closer to Elizabeta as she sighed in frustration.

“No. Gil, be sensible. Don’t be stupid. This is a _really_ sketchy place, okay?” Elizabeta answered in a final attempt, almost moping behind Gilbert.

“Looks _sick_.” Arthur answered, smiling in a dark manner, turning his head to look directly at Alfred and whisper, “I like it.”

“Don’t go all emo on me, Kirkland.” Gilbert said, inching an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, who, in his drunken manner, did not seem to care and merely threw his head back laughing while bringing his hand up to caress and touch Gilbert’s arm.

“Let’s move, guys! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Gilbert shouted repeatedly, and walked inside the building. Francis slowly walked behind them, upon seeing a young, blonde woman inside, smoothing back his hair as he moved, chuckling in a matter that was more suited to a far older man than Francis’s mere 18 years of age.

“Well,” Alfred told Elizabeta with a loud, intoxicated laugh, still steaming outside with her, “Like, YOLO, man. Right?”

“Fuck it. I’m not letting him ruin his life in there.” She said with fierce determination, and opened the door with an unlikely strength.

Alfred suddenly felt a great deal of trust towards her, a sort of parental affection, coated in his Tequila tainted mind.

Gilbert was lucky to have her as a friend, he thought, and remembered that Arthur was in there, too, and he all too gladly followed her inside.

 

_Holy shit._

 

It was an illuminating experience.

 

The alcohol made everything slightly more exciting and incredible, a warm feeling of anticipation starting in his stomach. The walls were metal and grey, a little shiny, too, because the dark blue and blinding white lights, flickering around in tact with the deep, loud bass, a stinging sound, were reflected from them, seemingly trapped among the crowd of people.

 Luckily, Arthur and Gilbert had not gotten far. Elizabeta’s worries forgotten, he had lost sight of her, although Alfred could easily spot Arthur and Gilbert.

Maybe she was purposely avoiding him.

Maybe it was fate.

It was as though he saw everything in slow motion.

Alfred found himself walking towards them, ignoring Elizabeta and Francis, Emma and Antonio, all somewhere in the crowd, becoming anonymous amongst the others, who were pushing into Alfred, dancing and jumping wildly.

Gilbert was currently taking yet another pill, getting it down with a bottle of some mysterious alcohol, and Arthur stood next to him, grinning madly.

 

Upon his gaze finding Alfred, his eyes seemed to light up, and his stare was fixated on Alfred and only on Alfred.

 

His mouth opened slightly, and Alfred found himself standing directly in front of him, Gilbert’s antics of drugs forgotten as he became invested with two large men and a girl in a tight, neon skirt, laughing with them and swaying a little.

 

Alfred was sure wasn’t breathing at this point, because when Arthur took a hand and lazily caressed his cheek, all of the air in his lungs suddenly escaped in an odd sigh of relief, a relief that _Arthur_ was touching him. Arthur searched his face for something, a curious, tender look on his face, before fluttering his eyelids closed. He looked so young, so gentle, so lovingly it hurt to look at him.

He was beautiful in a way than men or boys seldom are, all elegance and sharp curves.

 

They could blame it all on the alcohol.

 

Neither wanted to admit that they wished it all happened in another place, at another time, alone, listening to each other’s heartbeats and not the steady rhythm of the loud music.

 

Alfred looked deeply into Arthur’s eyes, finding they almost looked supernatural in the light. Arthur mustered him keenly, and he licked his lips before he began moving, slowly, deeply, and gracefully, to the music.

It was as though they were holy, as though Arthur was graced by a gentle, other worldly light that flickered from the high heavens above them, as though the moment was a gift from God, and the slow, careful movements and gestures were in tune to not a cheap dance song but a sacramental, imposing church choir song, allowing them to seem infinite and remembered by not only humans and other people, but by a higher power, creating a mark on them in this very moment.

The light could have very well been from stained glass windows, older than Alfred’s own nation, shining on Arthur and creating graceful shadows on his hair and face.

He could blame his thoughts of spirituality, immortality, remembrance and infinity on the Tequila.

 

Alfred didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

 

He didn’t breath.

He could only watch.

 

It was sinful the way his hands found Alfred’s shoulders and the way Alfred’s own hands found Arthur’s hips, both of them silent and not stopping, their concentration solely on each other, everything else was forgotten, the past between them, the jealously, the fights, simply everything.

 

It was as though this was a second chance granted from heaven that both of them needed.

It felt like it wasn’t real.

 

Maybe that was what made everything slightly worse.

 

Alfred leaned forward towards Arthur, drawn to him, feeling his soft, almost glowing hair touch his chin and his breath on his neck, and the wet, sharp lips mouthing at Alfred’s pulse point. Alfred closed his eyes, and gripped Arthur’s hips in a more possessive manner, surely to leave bruises and marks.

Alfred breathed shallow, sharp breaths at this point, ears and heart pounding from Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur_. He swallowed thickly as Arthur continued to trace his lips along Alfred’s neck and shoulder, down to his collar bone, eyes trailed in front of him, hooded a little in a lustful manner that suited him too well. Alfred stopped attempting to move to the music, and both of them merely stood, close and tight next to each other, ignoring attempt of pushing or shoving from other dancers, ignoring shouts of excitement and ecstasy, ignoring the rest of the world and known universe.

Arthur pulling himself closer to Alfred, hands and fingers tracing Alfred’s shoulder and back, as Alfred tightened the grip on his hips and sliding them into his own. They fit too well, so well that it hurt and burned, the points of contact between their skins seemingly lighting up like a fire whenever Alfred graced his skin with the presence of his large and heavy hands.

 Arthur gasped lightly at the movement of Alfred grinding up against Arthur, sound lost between the music. Arthur held Alfred’s shoulders tightly as he leaned his head forward towards Alfred’s body, as though he was falling, falling deeply and madly into Alfred and all of Alfred.

He drew his eyes back up to Alfred’s own, his glasses reflecting the light strangely creating a mesmerising pattern that wasn’t quite as captivating as Alfred’s deep, dark eyes, shadows from the flicking lights creating a complexity of light on his cheek and jaw. Arthur drew up a hand from Alfred’s shoulder and touched his jaw, gently, nails trailing slight marks as Arthur seemed to inspect Alfred’s face, searching for the answer to a silent yet certain question.

Alfred closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering, and relaxed his face at Arthur’s touch, though his eyebrows were slanted in an almost painful and sad direction. Arthur moved his hands to trace at his lips, touching with his thumb, and Alfred’s eyes slowly opened to meet Arthur’s, who stared back, a curious expression still on his face. Arthur trailed his eyes downwards, then upwards again, and found Alfred slowly leaning towards Arthur, and Arthur mirrored his action.

 

They were close, so close it hurt to think about it, so close they could feel each other’s hot, damp breaths in the warm, moist air of the club.

 

Too close.

 

It hurt, it burned, it stung.

 

It was only a matter of time.

 

 

“You shit!”

_Gilbert_.

 

“You hideous shit!” He shouted again from his position across the floor at the bar, but due to the music, it was muted, and he screamed more, until he vaulted forward to shove at the people between himself and the pair.

Alfred, in surprise and slight drunken innocence, was pushed back first, and Gilbert took the opportunity to swing his first punch, hitting Alfred badly on his eye.

 

He was bleeding.

 

Alfred screamed in pain before proudly standing up with a hurt, utterly confused expression, and hooking a punch back at Gilbert, who scratching and shouted at Alfred loudly before being hurled back at Alfred’s slightly larger size and width.

 

Alfred rubbed at his eye and swore.

 

Arthur looked at Gilbert.

 

Gilbert looked back.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

 

Arthur punched Gilbert.

 

 

Arthur then helped Alfred up and left.

:::

“Cool party.” Gilbert said to Elizabeta, sitting outside with him on the pavement, each of them smoking a cigarette.

“Bullshit,” She replied, parka stained darkly with alcohol and the slight drizzle of rain in the night.

Gilbert dug in his pocket, sticking out his tongue between his lips as he searched for his phone. Upon finding it, he tapped a few times and stuck it by his ear, only to scoff at it after no one answered.

Seeing Elizabeta’s confused stare, he explained, “Francis. Tried to find out where the fuck he went to. He’s smart- Probably found a bitch.” She nodded in understanding and took a drag from her cigarette before extinguishing it. Gilbert pushed the heel of his boot on his own.

“Sometimes I don’t know why we’re friends anymore.” She spoke, facing him with a angry glare.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? I’m from Mars, you’re from Venus. I do things and you worry about. I sleep with people, you persuade them to attempt suicide.” Gilbert replied, as she turns her head sharply to look at him once more.

_I can’t-_

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-_

_I can’t like it like this._

_How can you expect me to?_

“Don’t...” She attempted, breathing heavily through her nose, grounding her teeth.

“Are you angry, princess?” He asked, standing up and gesturing to his torso and laughing loudly, “If you wanna hit me, go right ahead.”

 

She stood up, slowly, swallowed, locked eyes with him, and slapped him, straight across his face, the sound echoing in the empty alley.

 

Gilbert swore, and exclaimed, “I said a punch, not a bitch slap!”

 

Elizabeta promptly attempted to punch him, grunting a little in exertion, and missed.

 

Perhaps it was fate that she did.

_O, quam dulce mori._

_Oh, how sweet it is to die._

 

Gilbert punched her as a reflex.

 

She toppled over a little in pain, swearing from the stinging, burning bruise forming, and quickly stood upright again to face him, a proud expression on her face.

“I can’t believe you slapped me.” Gilbert starts, an angry tone lacing his words as he grabbed a handful of Elizabeta’s shirt and held her close to his face, “That’s hilarious.”

Elizabeta did not struggle, and did not break free, although both knew that she could. Instead, she swallows again and her eyebrows furrow together in confusion, anger, and disappointment, a strong current of pain, both physical and emotional, underling the tension between them.

“Princess, you better not be crying.” Gilbert said, addressing the stray tear that fell from her eyes.

“I’m not crying because you punched me.” She said in a shaky tone.

“You crying for the kids in Africa?” He asked, hand still forceful pulling her towards him.

After a beat, she answered, “You know I used to so look up to you, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Oh, someday, I’ll be like Gilbert. He has a penis. He’s so cool!” He mocked, “Someday, I’ll be like Gilbert. Someday, oh, someday- Someday, I’ll be like-”

“And now I can’t think of nothing worse than being you!” She shouted loudly, surprising Gilbert as her voice and angry heaving echoed in the alley. He let go of her, and she abruptly walked away from Gilbert, who followed her movements in shock with his eyes.

“You’ve always been selfish.” She continued, ignoring his eye-rolling, “I always understood that. You did things because you wanted something. Fine. Makes sense. But now, you do things because you can. You fuck with people, Gilbert. And I don’t know why. You’ve got no friends! Even your parents left!” She shouted again, and Gilbert feels as though her words were knives, pointing towards him, stabbing him, hurting his heart more than anything.

“Not even Francis is answering your calls.” Elizabeta said in an oddly calm tone, “You’re right. He is clever.” She sneered.

They stared at each other, a distance between them both physically and emotionally. It was as though a dam of bottled feelings and conflicts broke and spread itself between them in brief seconds.

Elizabeta lit a cigarette in the silence, swearing when it didn’t light up at the first attempt, and it felt domestic and too comfortable for Gilbert to understand.

He walked over to her, “Every time you talk, princess, little flecks of spit are coming out of your mouth.” He paused, “They land on my face.”

She spit in his face and turned on her heel, leaving Gilbert to shout after her, “Elizabeta. Elizabeta!”

 “You’re full of shit,” She replied, further away from him than before, with not intention of coming closer, scoffing, anger clearly marked in her face, “You don’t give a fuck about anything, do you?”

“Nope,” He answered, laughing, although it hurt his bruised ribs and bleeding face, “Never did, never will. You love it. I know you do. You love me.”

 “I don’t. You don’t give a fuck about me. You don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.” She settled on, shouting again.

“Hey!” He shouted after her, and she briefly turned around, smoke making strange silhouettes in the dark night sky, disappointment and sadness in her face, “Hey, princess! You can’t leave me!”

“I can, and I will. You can’t stop me.” Elizabeta didn’t turn around this time, and walked away.

“I’ll- Hey! Where are you going?” He shouted after her.

“I’m leaving.” She answered, “I’m tired.”

“It’s only two-” He said in shock, mouth hanging agape as his expression turned serious.

“I’m tired of you, Gilbert.” Elizabeta replied, eyebrows furrowing together as her gaze trailed downwards, body slumping together as she seemed to painfully sigh out the words.

“What’s- What’s that supposed to mean?” Gilbert stood up slowly, limbs creaking in pain.

“It means I can’t look after you anymore,” She said, walking away from him again, “I can’t do it.”

Gilbert remained still, not moving or breathing.

He followed Elizabeta’s figure until it turned at the corner and left him.

The sky thundered as rain began to pour down.

Gilbert shouted out, and screamed in rage at the heavens above as he kicked at the elevated pavement, “Aw, fuck you, then!”

Face angry and hot, alone and drenched in a thunder storm, he decided to do what so many men before him did in times to trouble.

He went to a brothel.

:::

After a walk in the rain and contemplating his bottle of beer, he crossed the street, following the loud, pounding music and scowling as he dug his hands deeper in his pockets. He reached the row of slim houses, one block illuminated with a bright, green light that burned his eyes. A siren flared in the background, and he heard another roll of thunder as lightning struck somewhere behind him.

Inside, the atmosphere was more to Gilbert’s liking.

Smooth music erupted, with a steady rhythm, allowing the pole dancers swirling around in front of a glittering curtain to operate in a comfortable, constant motion. Gilbert almost admired their elegance, their agility, their calm, cool posture.

Gilbert smiled around his beer, and chuckled as a girl passed him and stroked his face, gently.

“Alright, my lovely?” She asked, and before Gilbert could even look at her face, she was gone.

A woman in a white fur coat, sitting in front of him at a small table, mustered him keenly, “Hello boy,” She said in a strongly accented voice, standing up, heels clicking in a smooth rhythm, “Looking for a sex dance?”

Gilbert laughed sharply, “I’m up for the other service.”

She nodded, a wise atmosphere around her, and beckoned him to follow her behind a silk, red curtain and up a set of stairs. Gilbert sipped at his beer again.

“So,” She asked, standing in front of him and crossing her arms, “What kind of thing are you lookin’ for?”

“I’d like a woman with big tits, please.” He answered politely.

“Ah,” She paused briefly, before clapping and shouting, angling her neck to spy up the second set of stairs, “Amber?”

A large woman with short, bright red hair that seemed darker than it really was in the bleak lighting, wearing a small, transparent pink dress and blue lingerie.

All Gilbert could do it shout a loud “Yes!”,toppling slightly in drunk enthusiasm.

The woman laughed deeply at the sight, chest heaving as she moved towards him down the stairs and stroked his face, “Alright, gorgeous?”

Gilbert laughed again, and followed her upstairs, beer bottle still in his hand.

:::

Sitting on a bare bed, the woman, Amber, mustered him, sitting with open legs, resting the palm of her large hands on her knees. She had a strange, serious expression on her face.

“So, will you let me anything I ask you?” Gilbert began, sitting next to her.

“Anything.” She replied, “If you got the cash.”

“How much for you to wack me up?”

 “Hundred.” She answered quickly.

“Woah. That’s a lot more than I’ve got. How much for the straight butter and bread, run of the mill fuck?” He negotiated.

“Seventy-Five.”

“.. What if I’m really good?” Gilbert said after licking his lips.

“It don’t make no difference, darling.” She drawled.

“Okay.” He settled on in a satisfied tone, “Guess I’ll just have a handjob then. That’s cheap, right?” She shrugged.

He stood, unzipped his pants, and pulled them down.

Upon seeing his prized sight, the woman scoffed and snorted loudly.

:::

“Oh Jesus,” Gilbert moaned, balanced on his elbows as the woman began to move her hand, “You’ve got liquid fucking fingers.”

Her large bust jiggled and she grinned a little, “You like that?”

“Oh, yeah,” He moaned as he bit his lips.

“Yeah,” He repeated, voice cracking as he neared his completion.

“Harder,” Gilbert commanded, “Harder.” His body strung, chest heaving, and sooner than later, the tension was released, and Amber stopped her movement and in satisfaction, she watched his small, shaking movement and heard his shy laugh, his heart beating fast, adrenalin flowing.

“Fuck,” He sighed, “ _Wow_.”

“That’ll be seventy.” She voiced, cleaning her hand with a tissue.

“ _Seventy_?” He questioned loudly, “I ain’t got that.”

He pulled out his wallet, “I’ve got a fiver. And some coins. I think.” Gilbert searched in his pockets.

She looked stern, her eyebrows furrowed. Gilbert swallowed loudly.

“Sorry?” He attempted to apologise, raising his eyebrows and smiling strangely.

Amber sniffed distantly and left the room, and Gilbert soon heard loud voices and an argument outside. He sat up, curious, and opened to door, to be greeted by the woman in the fur coat and Amber stopping their words. The woman quickly left, and Gilbert’s eyes widened as she returned with a large, strong, bald man in a black, skimpy tank top.

“You don’t mess with my girlies, you pussy.” His deep voice spoke, cracking his knuckles and walking nearer to Gilbert.

“Woah, woah, _woah_. I ain’t do _nothing_.” He tried, raising his hands in innocence.

“Shut up.” He replied, “Your mummy know where you are?”

There was thunder outside.

The rain hit the window rhythmically.

“What?” Gilbert said after a pause, quietly.

“Your mum. I bet you’re the apple of her eye.”

“Shut up. Don’t speak about my mom.” He replied, temper flaring.

“I think you came here to see her, didn’t you?” The man teased, and Gilbert’s nostrils flared at the insult.

“Shut up! Shut the fucking fuck up about my family!” He shouted, voice cracking, raising a fist to threaten the man, who did not seemed phased by the scrawny figure. “Do you know me? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I could fucking do?”

“I’m Beilschmidt!” He punched the man in the face, “I’m Gilbert fucking Beilschmidt!”

The man blinked, expression stony and cold.

There were no marks from the punch.

“I’m Beilschmidt!” He shouted once more.

 “Fucking. Fucking shit. Fucking cunt.” Gilbert repeated.

 “The next time I see you, you’re dead.” The man spoke up, tone slow, as if he were scolding a child.

His growling voice was the last he heard before running down the stairs and slamming the door.

:::

The mark on Gilbert’s cheek bone stung as he walked in the crisp, fresh morning light. The air and the streets were still wet, but the storm had ceased. Upon reaching the house, Gilbert stared at the window, painted a clean white and it clashed against the dirty, dark cemented house wall.

He picked up some pebbles, cradled them in his palm, and threw one, rejoicing when the curtains were pulled apart and he saw Elizabeta push up the window and lean out, her hair in a messy bun, hair sticking out and slightly curly, some strands touching the top hem of her t-shirt, which was stained with toothpaste, sweat, and perhaps other bodily fluids, belonging to herself or others.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and began to close the window, although Gilbert protested, “Wait- Wait!”

“Sh!” She exclaimed, eyebrows furrowed in anger.

“I need to speak with ya.” Gilbert said, staring up at her. She leaned her body on the palms of  her hands which were perched on the window sill, her nails bitten and chipped,

She looked at him expectantly, and he swallowed thickly and took a swig from his Vodka bottle.

 “Jesus, Gilbert. Can you not stop drinking?” She sighed.

“Aw, don’t be a cock about it.” He laughed, “I’ve been up all night.”

“Mhm.” She replied, watching him swallow again. The eye contact was too intense, too long, too much.

 “So,” He started, smiling, “What we doing today then?”

“Did you not hear what I said last night?” She replied, almost too quickly.

“Aw, come on, man, you was just in a bad mood.”

“Yeah. I was. ‘Cause you almost got yourself killed. You almost got us killed.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He laughed.

 “You’re apologising?” She questioned, eyebrows raised as she looked into the distance, “That’s a first.”

Gilbert looked at her innocently, and she sighed as an objection before disappearing from the window. Within short moments, she walked out of the house, wearing equally stained sweat-pants that were too large and bunched up in unflattering places.

Gilbert walked out of the pathway in the front garden of the house, and gestured for them to sit on the pavement. She complied, sniffed, and looked at him, urging him to explain himself.

“Something happened. That wasn’t me. I was me, but- Look, I did something stupid. Something really stupid. Something I wouldn’t have done if you were there.” He finished, and dug in the pocket of his jacket for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered one to her, and she complied, reluctantly.

While lighting it, Gilbert looked at her face.

She was kind of beautiful, sitting here, in the strange, early morning lighting, all sleep deprived and with marks of drool on her.

 “Right,” She said, pausing to drag at her cigarette, “So you’ve come to me to ask me to look after you. Make sure you never do anything stupid again.”

“Something like that, yeah.” His voice cracked.

 “No.” She answered sternly.

“What?” He questioned.

“I’m not going to do that.” She finalised, and inhaled.

“Why?”

 “‘Cause lately, it’s like you go looking for trouble.” She explained, looking at Gilbert again, eyes signalling tiredness and an emotional and physical drain.

“I don’t understand-” He started.

“Do you want to die? Is that what you want?” She asked, standing up to signal that she would, indeed, leave him, “You’re drinking and you’re taking all sorts of pills, you’re fighting. I don’t even want to know what happened last night. You’re trying to impress some pissed up old wanker in a pub who doesn’t give a shit.”

She stopped, looking at Gilbert’s gentle and shy smile.

“Why are you smiling?” She asked.

“Because it’s us, isn’t it? Me, you. Best friends for life.” He tried, voice creaking again.

“.. You’re not taking me with you. You’re not going to pull me down with you.”  She finished, and watched Gilbert get up quickly.

He held her arms and shook her, forcing her to look into his eyes. They were like porcelain, reflecting everything he saw, and seemed distant, cold, and even empty.

It wasn’t real.

This wasn’t happening.

 

“I fucking love you, man. I fucking love you to bits.”

 

Gilbert swallowed, and observed her eyes averting themselves, her shaky breath. They paused, listening to the birds chirping and a nearby car.

After a long while, he heard her obsolete excuse, “I- I- Yeah. Okay.”

 

They stopped.

 

“You’ve got to stop all this stupid, crazy shit. You have to stop.” She said after a while, trying to compose herself, and itched out of Gilbert’s grip to smoke her cigarette.

“Why did you fuck Arthur?” She asked after a beat.

Gilbert swallowed.

She closed her eyes and smoked.

“‘Dunno.” He said earnestly, “He’s not like you, it’s not the same, and you know that. I know that, everyone knows that.”

She finished the cigarette and stepped on it using the heel of her black sneakers.

“Hm.” She complied, and walked away, “That’s a lot of words, Gilbert. It should only be three.”

She closed the door and left him.

 

Gilbert inhaled sharply, and found that his head was light. His chest hurt. His eyes stung.

He cried.

:::

“Well,” Gilbert whispered, walking through his own grey, boarded and stained front door as he stopped before a framed black and white picture. He raised a dirty and stained hand to caress at the primed and polished image. “I guess you owe me a lecture about my behaviour.”

 

It wasn’t as though he expected an answer.

 

 

 

Ludwig was dead for a good year and a half.

 

 “You’d be really disappointed.” He sighed, “You’d just complain about all the mud I’m carrying in from the streets.”

 

 

_Though these days, perhaps he was part of the mud of the streets themselves._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The green light metaphor. Do you get it? Oh yeaahhh.


	3. Arthur.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is alone again-
> 
> He burnt it down, he burnt it all down.

Chapter Three: Arthur.

_I never forget what a person says._

_I simply don’t._

_I never forget what they shout when they are angry, what the mutter under their breath, what they whisper. I see, and I understand. I understand a lot of things._

_I cannot understand what happened to us, or why._

_We truly did not deserve this._

_I certainly didn’t._

_Love-_

_Love, love, love-_

_What’s love good for?_

_Absolutely nothing._

_Everything I touch, I burn. And the fire that results burns me, too._

_It hurts too good._

:::

“Ouch,” Alfred said in the dark, cool air, reacting to the pain he felt on his rips. Gilbert had definitely bruised them, and Arthur was gripping them, hard, as he hoisted him up, allowing him to lean on Arthur’s smaller, leaner body.

Alfred’s hair seemed to glow in the dim light of the lamp-posts, the golden, long layers were shining and reflecting, creating shadows.

“Are you an angel?” Alfred asked him, smiling lopsidedly at Arthur, eyes seemingly full of affection and _love_. Arthur had to look down to avoid the illusion, swallowing.

Arthur did not reply, perhaps because he was simply too tired as they began walking out of the dark, loud club, slowly, because Alfred was heavy and Arthur was still a little tipsy. He pushed them outside, with Alfred limping numbly and Arthur grunting a little out of exertion.

After Arthur had inspected his wounded fist, he had received scratches and marks from punching Gilbert, he heard the sound of sliding fabric and noticed Alfred sitting himself down on the dirty, stained concrete ground outside the club, leaning his spine against the wall of the dark alley.

Arthur gave Alfred a quick glance before closing his eyes and turning his head to look downwards, in shame, in a silent apology to God and _Alfred_ for simply existing.

He looked exhausted, hurt, confused, tired, and above all, as though he were in pain.

Arthur sat down next to him, slowly, tentatively, and he moved his head to further inspect Alfred, seeing the aching, throbbing wound covering his eye, part of his forehead, and cheek, as well as blood gushing from his chest, there were probably bruises and scratches. Arthur swallowed at the sight.

Alfred closed his eyes, and Arthur questioned whether he would cry.

He didn’t.

Arthur sighed and dug around in his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. Upon finding it, he lit one, and offered Alfred one, who lazily looked at Arthur and smiled.

“What- Why are you smiling?” Arthur asked quickly.

“‘Dunno.” Alfred answered, “You’re kinda pretty and I’m a lil’ bit drunk. ‘S true though. You are kinda beautiful.”

Arthur blushed and inhaled the smoke of his cigarette before lowly replying, “Don’t talk such rot.”

After a pause, he continued, moving his head to face Alfred again, who was smiling a lopsided grin at Arthur, face contoured in bruises and blood, “I guess that you can’t possibly go home to your dear father like that. Do- Do you want to come over to mine? I’ll clean you up and make up an excuse for him.”

Alfred nodded slowly, expression tired and sad.

“Sure,” He answered, “Thanks, Arthur.”

“What are you thanking me for? This is my fault. I’m a lot of trouble. It’s probably for the best if you avoid me for the rest of your life.” Arthur swallowed thickly.

“What? Why would I want to do that?” Alfred replied quickly.

“Because I’ll break your heart.” Arthur’s voice broke slightly.

“I’ll break your heart.” He repeated sadly, smoking, and observing its movements with a stony expression.

“No.” Alfred answered suddenly, facing Arthur with a serious expression, his drunken antics and ramblings forgotten, “I won’t let you. I mean it, Arthur. I won’t let you do this again. There’s a hell of a lot of perfection at stake.”

Arthur snorted.

Alfred stared at him.

His eyes flashed a sign of hurt.

Arthur ignored it.

“Don’t be silly, Alfred. You are such a fucking cliché. Come on, let’s get you home, you poetic drunk.” Arthur joked, and slowly stood up before helping Alfred, who ached and groaned.

:::

Arthur opened the door to his slim, old, and dark house with a swish, keys jingling in the motion, and he adjusted Alfred on his shoulders, who numbly let his head hang.

“Up we go,” Arthur nudged, walking up the stairs with him. He let Alfred sit on the floor, his back slumping against his crisp, white and smooth bed frame, dark blue bed sheets invitingly spread.

Arthur looked at him sadly before leaving him alone to quickly grab the pseudo first-aid kit from the bathroom, along with a damped towel.

Alfred groaned again as Arthur stirred him awake: He had begun to fall asleep, the fool. Arthur ignored the rush of affection as Alfred humbly submitted to Arthur pulling his shirt up as Arthur sat down in front of him, steadying his shoulders and neck before beginning to try and clean the wounds on Alfred’s chest, using the damp towel. Alfred’s body loosely leaned forward, allowing Arthur to inhale sharply at the sudden close proximity of their bodies.

Eventually, Arthur’s hand rested comfortably on the back of Alfred’s neck, and every now and then, Alfred would wince, and Arthur would mumble a shy excuse or apology.

It was strangely domestic.

Alfred remained silent, perhaps he was tired. His eyes began to slowly open and stare directly into Arthur’s, who swallowed and averted his gaze to Alfred’s wounds, only to bit his lip and blush slightly upon noticing that Alfred was truly far more fit that Arthur was, with stronger muscles and a larger torso than he had.

Arthur inhaled sharply as Alfred spoke, “This is nice.”

“... Nice? Getting seriously injured is ‘nice’?” Arthur mocked, laughing a little at the absurdity.

“Yeah, well,” He began, “I get to spend time with you. That’s nice.”

Arthur stopped his movements and looked up at Alfred’s face, he looked too serious for such a young spirit. Alfred always was so free, free from the world around him, and he always looked up at the sky, it was infinite and never final, and perhaps Alfred also never wanted to be final, to have a set life, a 5-9 job, but that didn’t mean that Alfred didn’t want a purpose in life, a meaning, a reason to keep on moving forward and never looking back, back into the past and back into past thoughts, past lives, past ideas, for tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther, and inhale the fresh air of a new beginning.

Arthur searched for an answer in Alfred, always, always in Alfred, the answer to an unsaid question that steadily beat in each of their veins, a question that triggered fast heartbeats and fleeting glances, tender touches and lips on necks, fingers grazing hips.

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed, continuing with the task at hand. Once he thought it was sufficiently done, he stopped, stood up, and bandaged the wounds as best as he could, hands feeling numb every time they got into contact with Alfred’s bright, too bright, skin, his heart aching every time Alfred winced and humbly apologising, too.

_Why did you come back?_

_Why did you stay?_

_Why don’t you leave?_

_Everyone else-_

_Everyone else usually-_

“Sorry,” Arthur said, looking up into Alfred’s eyes, “I’m awfully sorry about this. None of this-”

“No.” Alfred said sternly, “This wasn’t your fault.”

Arthur swallowed, averted his gaze, and wanted to scream.

Alfred stopped Arthur’s hands, holding his wrists tightly. Arthur’s eyes flew up to look at Alfred again, and found him surprisingly angry.

“This wasn’t your fault.” He repeated, voice breaking with determination that his words were the truth and not just another one of Alfred’s beautiful, beautiful lies that Arthur found himself believing in over and over again, lies that hurt and burned his skin, allowing Arthur to always remember them because Alfred’s lies had left a mark on Arthur again and again and _again_.

Alfred told Arthur his lies so many times Arthur began to doubt himself, began to doubt whether they truly were lies, and accepted them. After all these years, after all of the years he spent looking at Alfred’s burning, stinging lies that had left a prominent mark on Arthur’s layers of complexity, so prominent that they burnt through each and every layer in itself, burning at the root of Arthur, in the heart he failed to show anyone, Arthur had found himself investing himself in Alfred all over again.

It was as though Arthur wanted to allow Alfred to know him, to truly understand him, to invest himself in Arthur as Alfred had invested himself in Alfred, and had fallen, had fallen hard, as though he were an angel whose wings were painfully torn from his back, blood gushing, and he had fallen out of heaven itself to finally, _finally_ _understand_ that it was Alfred and only ever Alfred.

Arthur wanted to allow himself to fall deeper and deeper into Alfred, even though it hurt and it burned and it stung.

There simply wasn’t anyone else who would do.

_It hurt-_

There simply wasn’t anyone else who shared the same amount of history, anyone else who had the same laugh, the same smile, the same tender touch and possessive grasp, anyone else who could make Arthur feel the same way ever again in his life.

_It burned-_

It was as though Arthur could see the reflection of him and Alfred in a cracked mirror, barbed wire tying them together, but he could no longer feel the pain, he could no longer see the imaginary lies of Alfred that neither believed in from the day they had met, from the moment they looked into each other’s eyes and simply _knew_ that the danger of the nuclear-like collision of minds, of hearts, would burn them as though a Roman candle, light yellow and flickering, wax dripping on the pages of a Bible, had burnt the foundations of a marble church, arches falling and wooden benches aflame.

_It stung-_

 

Neither cared about the risk, the open-wounds and the scars, neither cared about the barbed wire or broken mirror, neither cared about the Roman candle and the bible, neither cared about the broken arches of a marble church, and neither cared about the pain that could result or the confusion it caused-

 

_They cared about each other-_

 

_And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?_

 

“I- I- I just- Damn it, Arthur.”

 

And then Alfred sobbed.

His entire body ached and broke, his expression shattered into an unstable twisting of his eyes and mouth. He made a choked noise, and it made Arthur want to scream, but he couldn’t move, he could only stare at Alfred’s contoured face and the immense pain that he catapulted out of his soul and heart through the tears streaming down his face and the strangled ventilation he sounded.

Arthur untangled his wrists from his hands, and carded them through his hair as he pulled Alfred close to him, hugging and holding him so that he could feel each time Alfred’s chest exhaled in an unsteady rhythm and shook, tears making Arthur’s neck and shoulders wet. Arthur closed his eyes and he felt an immense sense of pain for Alfred and perhaps for himself, too.

“It’s okay,” Arthur said after some time, gliding his hand through his hair, “It’s okay, Alfred.”

Alfred clawed at Arthur’s back and tried to cease his crying.

After some time, he stopped and breathed steadily. Arthur didn’t have the heart to pull away and merely stared at the opposite wall.

Alfred had slowly but surely begun to fall asleep, in a drunken madness of emotions and tiredness, dozing on Arthur’s shoulder who sighed quietly and tried to push him up onto the bed. As he was larger than him and far heavier than he looked, this was quite a difficult task, and Alfred merely flopped down on the bed, blissfully sleeping.

Arthur looked down at him with a calm and calculated expression.

Arthur shot his arm forward and carefully searched for Alfred’s phone in the pocket of his hideous American sweatshirt, and with the minimum amount of inappropriate touching he could muster, Arthur found it and texted his father, briefly explaining that he was sleeping at Arthur’s and expressed his apologies.

It wasn’t as though he would read it, anyhow, nor care, Arthur still remembered the strong, terrifying figure of Alfred’s father from his childhood.

 

Arthur looked down at Alfred again, and stroked his fringe away from his forehead, and traced his face lightly with his fingertips, trying to avoid his wounds.

_It hurt._

He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes.

_It burned._

Arthur stood up and left his room before he could see Alfred open his eyes and blink once or twice before slowly rolling on his back.

_It stung._

:::

Unsurprisingly, it was Alfred who awoke first the next morning with uncertain enthusiasm.

Surprisingly, Arthur was lying next to him.

He wore his pyjamas, grey sweatpants and a overly large stained band t-shirt, whereas Alfred could not remember changing out of his sweatshirt, proven true when he looked down at his body covered by the duvet, but this was all the same because he could remember only fragments of the last night, fragments of Arthur’s touch and Arthur’s smile, Arthur holding him and-

 _Gilbert_.

Alfred shook the thought out of his.

He didn’t need to think about it now, not when _Arthur_ was lying next to him, right here, sleeping soundly, breathing quietly, and Alfred was quite content to just look at Arthur all morning long.

His lips were chapped and open, and he steadily breathed through them, his chest heaving as he did so.

Maybe his nose was blocked.

Arthur had a nice nose.

It was triangular and small, and it had small freckles on it that broke the even pale tint of his skin. Arthur also had freckles like that on his neck, just a few, and Alfred blushed at the curious thought of whether or not he would have freckles like that spread across his back, shoulders, collar bone, and hip. He bet that Arthur had a nice back, all smooth and elegant, with a good slope to it, right down to his-

“Hi,” A female voice said from near the window, and Alfred jumped at the intrusion, careful not to scream out. He sighed in relief when he found Arthur’s mother sitting on the chair from Arthur’s desk, tea cup in hand with crossed legs and her blonde, layered hair tied up. She had kind eyes, the same colour as Arthur’s.

“I made tea.” She continued, gesturing at the cup.

Alfred smiled awkwardly and exhaled, before saying politely, “That’s okay. Thanks but no thanks, Mrs. Kirkland.”

“How’d you get those injuries, then, Alfred?” She asked worriedly.

“Oh, uh- Football. You know, boys and their sports.” He joked.

She continued to look at Alfred, and then down to the peacefully sleeping Arthur.

“Uh,” Alfred began, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just looking.” She answered, smiling at him.

“Right.” Alfred answered slowly, and followed the woman’s gaze to Arthur.

“He’s sort of beautiful.” He said softly.

“I suppose he is.” She said after a paused and sighed before continuing, “Why don’t you wake up Sleeping Beauty and tell him we have something called breakfast in our country?”

Alfred laughed hollowly as a confirmation, watching her stand and walk away.

After a moment, Arthur stirred next to him, and Alfred shook his shoulder with unusual vigour for a boy who was supposed to have a hangover, be injured, _and_ tired. Arthur turned and groaned into his pillow, hair become even more messy as he moved.

Naturally, Alfred laughed, and Arthur took the liberty of glaring at him over his shoulder.

His eyebrows framed his eyes slightly, and they were bright, almost too bright.

It hurt Alfred to look at Arthur.

From the way his neck was sloped and the juncture of his shoulders to his torso, from the freckles to the slight flush, from his anger and sharp words and his bright, bright eyes-

Alfred sighed loudly, swung his legs up and stood up, showing his manners by letting Arthur wake up before saying anything that he would regret Arthur find awkward.

Briefly, Alfred’s mind urges back to the feeling, the commotion, the familiarity of Arthur’s touch, Arthur’s skin, Arthur’s room, Arthur’s lips on his neck, softly, then harshly, forward, grinding for more, more, and always more, until-

_Ah, shit._

:::

Arthur bit his toast, looking in his usual manner at Alfred, who was loudly chewing and speaking at the same time at Arthur’s family breakfast table on this Saturday morning. Arthur’s father was sitting next to Arthur, opposite Alfred, and his mother was calmly washing the dishes in the sink behind Alfred. The light shone through the curtains, and it made Alfred’s hair seem golden.

_Lovely, golden fool._

“After that, we had to get out mega speedly,” Alfred reminisced, crumbs flying wildly as he talks with such excitement Arthur has to bite back a smile, “So we climbed up some spiky fence, and we found us in this field! Oh, those were the days. What did we do after that, Artie?”

 “... Can’t remember.” Arthur says hoarsely after a while, continuing chewing.

“Well, we either went back to the playground to find the others and then got fries, or the other way around.”

“Chips.” Arthur corrected him.

“Right. Super cool.” Alfred laughed, interrupted by his phone ringing. He apologised quickly, then answered it loudly.

 “Hi, dad! It was super good. We made soup. For the homeless. Soup! They love soup! Arthur says hi. Yeah, I’ll be home soon. See ya!” Alfred grins at the table again, and Arthur enjoys the stunned expression of his father through the corner of his eyes.

“Did you just- That was a pack of lies.” The large man said, looking at Alfred over his reading glasses, and Arthur smiles shyly.

“Oh, you can’t tell him the truth. He’d _totally_ flip, dude!” Alfred replied.

“Is he speaking English?” Arthur’s father asked Arthur.

“He means the truth hurts, dad.” Arthur sighed, closing his eyes and jutting his chin up a little in the air, “It’s for his own good.”

“Oh.” His father acknowledged.

“Otherwise- Truth? Boom.” He finished, and his mother dropped a dish in the sink, resulting with a loud clang that echoed in the kitchen. Alfred stopped chewing to look at Arthur, who smiled smugly.

 “Are you alright, love?” His father absentmindedly asked, not looking at her.

“Perfectly.” She answered, before addressing Arthur.

“Stop it.” She said sharply.

 “You stop it.” He replied, voice hoarse yet again.

Alfred’s toast crunched in his mouth once in the silence.

The doorbell promptly rang before the situation could endeavour into chaos, and Arthur’s father stood up to answer it. Arthur leaned a little to see who it was, and heard Arthur’s father answer brightly.

_No, nothing wrong here with the Kirkland family. All’s well and absolutely peachy._

 “Steve, mate! Am I driving today?” His father asked, his reading glasses perched on the top of his head as he opened the door with a smile, addressing the smaller man in front of him, with dark hair.

“No.” He shook his head.

“You’re doing that conference in Bath. You don’t want to miss that.” His father replied, smiling politely, though it was a little strained.

“I can’t do it.”  


_Boom_.

 

“Jesus- You should have told me,” His father said, smiling still, “I love those events.”

 

Arthur’s mother stood behind his father, looking at the man in the door.

 

“I need you.” He said, addressing the mother.

 

“Okay, I’ll get the car keys.” His father said as a reply.

 

Arthur stood up, hand lingering on the table, before slowly walking to the door, mouth opened and not blinking. He wasn’t even breathing at this point. He could cut the air with a knife if he wanted to. As though in a trance, he stopped at the staircase and carefully watched the scene unfold, arms lax by his side. Alfred stood slightly behind him out of caution.

 

“For fucks sake, I love you. When are you going to understand that?” The stranger said.

 

His father scoffed, “Steve, mate, I’m- I’m married. Straight-”

 

The man walks forward, past Arthur’s father, and looks at his mother in a way that can only be described as passionate.

She attempted to stop him, and startled and afraid, “I told you, it’s too late-”

 

The man kissed her.

 

 _No_.

 

She pulled back.

 

_No, no, no, no-_

 

She kissed him again, firmly, open-mouthed, and he grabs her forward, inching them together.

 

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no-_

 

Arthur’s father lets go of his hold on the door frame.

Alfred doesn’t breath.

Arthur wants to scream.

:::

“Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” His father screamed from the top floor of the two story house, and Arthur shook at his words downstairs in the kitchen. Alfred sat opposite him, looking shyly at him, unsure of what to do.

 “You don’t understand, Jim, please-” His mother tried to reason.

Arthur leaned on the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the kitchen table, a cold hearted stare, edged with worry, sadness, fright, as well as an undemanding current of anger. It made him look scared and vulnerable, and it hurt Alfred to look at it. He did, however, gaze into Arthur’s eyes, staring at them, as though he would find the answer to the universe in them, and when Arthur suddenly met his own blue eyes behind framed glasses, he swallowed, and did not break the stare, even after a suitcase was flung down the stairs. Arthur flinched and blinked, his eyes watering, his pose still composed and steady.

 “All those fucking yoga lesson you spent with him in-” His father began.

_Breath, breath, breath, breath-_

“No, please. Wait, listen to me-” She sobbed.

_As long as you’re breathing, you’re alive._

Arthur’s father gave Arthur a long-lasting look, and Arthur gasps slightly as his chest heaves, almost hyperventilating. His mother sobbed, but his father ignored the sounds of protest she made and slammed the door. Arthur’s mother covered her face and ran up the stairs, slamming yet another door.

In the dark silence, Alfred

Alfred touches his hand.

_What else could he do?_

Arthur looks up at Alfred, dark eyebrows framing his eyes. They seem too bright in the wide, sunny kitchen.

_You don’t know me at all-_

“They fuck you up.” He said, slowly, carefully drawing out each painfully spoken words. Alfred swallowed and listen to him continue, “They don’t mean to, but they do.”

Arthur closed his eyes and seemed to inhale sharply, almost shivering, before quickly standing up, his chair toppling over and making a loud noise in the open space of the kitchen.

“Arthur!” Alfred shouted after him as he slammed the door shut, quick steps running away from Alfred, from the house, from his family, from seemingly all of his problems at once.

_You don’t know me at all, you never will._

:::

At the river side, Alfred found him again, sitting on the concrete floor marked with painted white letter, looking at the pier standing upright, smoking. He looked surprisingly dignified, though perhaps it was not a surprise at all, for everything Arthur did was calculated, calm elegance, aligned to create an air of cynical, sharp words, that were beautiful, too.

Arthur was very beautiful.

 _Fuck_.

Alfred walked to stand beside him. Arthur paid him no notice and continued to smoke, before his eyes watered again and he sniffed.

“Arthur... Arthur, don’t cry.” Alfred began quietly, unsure of where to place his hands and deciding to leave them on either side of his torso.

“Are you-” He slowly continued.

“I’m not crying.” Arthur shouted, standing up and shaking, words breaking with each heaving breath as his body shook.

He then seemed to break as though a porcelain doll was dropped.

_His facade broke._

He let a choked, strangled cry erupt from deep inside of him and the tension built in his shoulders to keep a strong, steady and proud pose was released all at once.

He cried.

_His compose was gone._

Alfred pulled him towards himself in a tight embrace, a pained expression on his own face, as Arthur shouted out a little, sobbing, almost painfully, breathing scarcely as he clawed at Alfred’s sweater, eventually deciding to dig his head in the crook of his shoulder. Alfred copied this, and held him tighter, so tight towards him that it hurt.

_It hurt too much._

_It was Arthur, and only, truly, Arthur, no complex metaphors or hidden meaning._

_Just Arthur._

“Why-” Arthur sobbed, “Why did you stay?”

“Well,” Alfred said calmly, surprising himself at his tone as well, “That’s super easy to explain.”

 

_I love you._

_I love you so much it scares me._

“It’s-” Alfred continued, “I- We’re friends. At least, I hope so. I want us to be friends.”

“That’s-” Arthur tried, mouth opening a couple of times but failing to produce words.

“Yup.” Alfred said, smiling gently at Arthur. Before he could stop himself, he brushed at Arthur’s fringe and tears with his fingers.

Arthur stared at the ground in concentration.

He heaved and exhaled a shaky breath before looking into Alfred’s eyes.

“I-” He tried again, “I- I’m sorry.”

“What?” Alfred replied after some time, confusion written in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to fuck everything up.” Mouth slightly agape, Arthur tried to voice again, although it sounded hoarse and horrifically weak and vulnerable.

“When- When did you fuck everything-” Alfred tried to ask.

“Between us. I did. I was a prick. And- I’m sorry.” Arthur settles on, a determination in his eye that was unusual to have when honest words were spoken.

Perhaps it was a determination to _be_ honest.

“I- You didn’t. But- Thanks, I guess?” Alfred said, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. Or do you want to go to mine? You can stay, too, if you want to-”

“It’s fine,” Arthur stopped him, tearing himself away from Alfred’s gaze and hold, and Alfred, Alfred, _Alfred_ , “I think- I think I’ll just go back to mine.”

Arthur turned and left Alfred.

Alone on the desolated pier, Alfred pushed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets and shouted to the heavens above, “I’m straight! I’m supposed to be straight!” before groaning and slapping his forehead.

Clouds came forward and covered the sun.

::

Arthur stood in the kitchen with his mother, his father feeling emotionally distant more than physically, and it was as though Arthur had sensed his spirit, for he could imagine him so clearly sitting in the evening sun, eating dinner and reading his newspaper.

Currently, only Arthur’s mother sat on the table. Arthur saw her back, as he leaned on the counter behind her.

She was smoking a cigarette although she had quit a long time ago, and leaning her forehead on her palm. An empty wine bottle and glass in front of her, she moaned loudly, groaning, too, before whispering to herself, “You’re a stupid slag. A stupid, fucking slag. You really can’t get anything, right, can you? You’re a stupid-”

Arthur, leaning on the counter behind her, dropped a vase that was conveniently placed next to the sink.

It made a wonderfully clear noise.

His mother violently shook in surprise.

Stepping on the broken pieces of glass, Arthur walked straight up to his room, much to the wonder of his mother, who gaped at him in confusion.

Thunder rumbled as the skies brought dark clouds and heavy rain.

:::

The next morning, Arthur’s father was not sitting at the kitchen table.

Nor was Alfred.

Arthur thought it was cruel that he missed Alfred as much as his own father.

Drizzle made a shy, steady rhythm on the window of the kitchen.

Arthur’s mother sat at the table, and Arthur place himself at a distance opposite her. She stared, her face wrinkled with tiredness.

Resting her chin in her hand, she smiled at him and observed him before shaking her head and saying, “You really are beautiful.”

Arthur did not show surprise or any emotion at all. Instead, he looked into her eyes and replied, “It’s from you, mum.”

:::

Unsurprisingly, Alfred found that he could and Arthur in school the next day.

It was unsurprisingly when he remembered how much absolute _shit_ Arthur had went through over the weekend.

Slamming his locker door, Alfred sighed, and adjusted the back-bag on his shoulder before walking to class.

If Arthur were here, he would surely complain about Alfred.

If Arthur were here, he would make a snide remark about the way Gilbert was prancing across the hallway.

If Arthur were here-

 _Slam_.

Gilbert’s weight pushed Alfred into the bathroom and thrown off his balance, he fell, his back hitting the tiles, and he winced at the contact of the cool surface with the bruises from Friday night.

“Hey!” Alfred shouted, scrambling to get up. Gilbert turned around, closing the bathroom door, before checking each stall.

The bell for class had already rung.

It was empty.

Gilbert leaned against the door, blocking Alfred’s path of escape further. He swallowed thickly.

“He loves you, you know.” Gilbert began, looking directly at Alfred with an unsuited and unsure expression.

“...What?” Alfred questioned after a while, moving closer to Gilbert, confusion written clearly on his face.

“He loves you. _Arthur fucking Kirkland loves you._ Told me so.” Gilbert clarified in a steady tone.

Alfred’s jaw relaxed, and his body slumped.

He wasn’t breathing.

He couldn’t feel his fingers or feet, his chest hurt, and his heart beat steadily at a fast rhythm.

“But he can’t stand it.” Gilbert continued, “So he fucks me instead. He’s taking the piss. And it’s hurting me. That’s all I get because I’m _pure shit_.”

Gilbert swallowed and sniffed, raising the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes. His voice was breaking. “You kinda fucked us all up, Jones. You kinda did. Before you came, everything was sunshine and rainbows and perfect. You fucked us up.”

Alfred was silent.

“I fucked up,” Gilbert said, crying openly. His chest heaved and his shoulders shook violently, hyperventilating as he continued, “I fucked up big time. I lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And you need to help me get her back.”

:::

Arthur’s mother stayed in her room for all of Saturday and Sunday, and called in sick for work.

Arthur, similarly, had no intention of doing anything productive over the weekend, let alone have human contact.

Everyone hated him, anyhow.

No one would miss him at school.

Perhaps-

Maybe-

 _No_.

Through a knock on his front door and some loud shouting of “I know you’re there, Kirkland!”, Elizabeta announced herself and engaged Arthur to open his door and face her, his expression tired, feeling sloppy in his black sweatpants and large band t-shirt compared to her always present green parka.

He stared at her for a brief moment, not speaking.

Tired _._

He was so tired.

Tired of them, tired of the world.

_“They fuck you up-”_

Looking up at him, she sneered, “Any good?”

Arthur looked at her expectantly, and she continued, “I mean, he’s a _sensational_ fuck, yeah?”

“Look-” He began, his body slumping against the door frame, head dropped low and fringe covering his eyes.

“You messed with my best-” She spat, anger written across her face.

Voice low and heavy, he replied, “He’s not yours, Elizabeta. He’ll never belong to anyone.”

“Shut up.” She said, teeth grinding against each other.

“He’s not the one you deserve.” He said quietly, almost humbly, leaning against his door frame.

“Shut up!” She shouted.

A gust of wind blew across them, and silence resulted. It began to rain, again, and thunder roared as Elizabeta strongly stared into Arthur’s eyes, becoming drenched quickly in the strong rain.

Tears stinging in his eyes, his voice cracked, “I’m sorry, okay? I fucked it up. I fucked up.”

She searched his face further. He dug his palms into his eyes and sniffed.

“My parents are splitting up. I fuck everything up. I always do.”  He finished, and wiped with the back of his hand at the tears falling from his eyes.

She inhaled and shaky breath, turned and walked away.

“Yeah. You do. Maybe I do, too.” She finalised, and Arthur was left alone again.

He saw lightning strike in front of him, and closed the door slowly, walking into his house, vision blurred by the tears cascading. He stopped on the stairs and sat on them, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes and shaking.

He felt alone.

:::

_Ring, ring, ring-_

“.... Yes?”

_“Arthur? H-Hey, man! How- How are you?”_

“.... I’m- I’m fine.”

_“I hope you are. Really.”_

“I- Thank you, Alfred.”

_“...”_

“... I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not entirely up to conversation. Is there a particular reason you called?”

_“Well, yeah. I wanted to know how you are.”_

“And now you know. Goodbye-”

_“No, wait! I’ve- I’ve got to speak with you. In real life. Can I come over? Or can you come to mine?”_

“... I- _Fine_. Come to the pier. I’ll meet you in five.”

_Beep beep beep._

:::

Alfred was already standing on the concrete path next to the water by the desolated pier, idly playing with his feet and spinning about, when Arthur saw him. It was a grey day, and cloudy, too, and it was though Alfred was far too bright to belong here.

Arthur stopped walking when Alfred saw him and ran towards him.

“Hey,” He said, a little breathless.

“You’d better have a good reason to want to see me.” Arthur replied, sighing, bones, heart, and head aching.

“... Yeah. I do.” Alfred said, eyes trailing to the ground, “Gilbert went to see me. He had a fight with Elizabeta. They- It’s kinda complicated and _really_ fucked up, but he wants her back, and shit, and- But... He- I don’t know how to say this, but- It’s all cool, yanno? Between me and him, and you and him, and everything’s all okay now.” Alfred finished with an expectant look towards Arthur.

Arthur swallowed thickly.

“... Why are you telling me this?” He asked, turning his head away from Alfred’s stare.

“You know why.” He replied, tone stern and serious, “You know exactly why. Don’t- Don’t run away from this again. Don’t shut me out. There’s- There’s so much perfection at stake, Arthur.”

 _Oh_.

“You went away. Why did you go away?” Arthur closed his eyes, “I needed you, and you pissed me off.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Alfred shouted and flailed his arms wildly, “I didn’t have a fucking choice! I was a kid!”

“What’s the fucking difference?” Arthur loudly replied, eyes stinging yet again, “Nothing good ever stays with me! Absolutely nothing!”

Alfred stared at him, breathing heavily.

It began to drizzle.

“You were the one,” Arthur clarified, not looking up at Alfred, “And you were the only one. You made me weak.”

_It hurt._

“I’ll break your heart.” Arthur finished, and it was though he tried to convince himself of his words, tears streaming down his face and his voice breaking, “I’ll break your fucking heart.”

_It burned._

Alfred pulled him towards himself, wrapping his arms around him, harshly yet securely, as Arthur dragged his nails into his back as if trying to hold onto Alfred, to never allow him to let go, as if he were drowning in the large, deep, dark, infinite ocean and Alfred were plywood drifting next to him.

The skies opened up and it began to rain, heavily, with thunder in the distance, and lightning striking in the waters of the desolated pier.

He needed Alfred.

He needed him.

“I fucking love you,” Alfred said in a hoarse voice, “I love you, Arthur Kirkland.”

 

_It stung._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I :) FUcking :) HATE :) THIS moTHERfUCKINg :) shIT :) i :) huRT :) MYSELF :) WRIITNG :) THIS
> 
> WTHAT THE FUCK FHKDFJS
> 
> IT WILL ALL BE GOOD
> 
> SHHSSHSHHHHH
> 
>  
> 
> Also im in desperate need of suggestions for what shenanigans they could do all together. Think friendship, fluff, and humour.
> 
> Write it in the comments if ur down for that!!


	4. Alfred.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was calculated with desperate uncertainty and Alfred’s intuition had broken the fine glass that Arthur had placed between them, however, while doing so, he had manage to scar and cut both of them, painfully."
> 
> Alfred crashed and burns, deeply, surging into the fire that Arthur had carefully conducted.

Chapter Four: Alfred.

_Somewhere along the line I knew there’d be love and pain, visions, everything-_

_Somewhere along the line every pearl in the world will be handed to me._

:::

“Alfred, get dressed.” Alfred’s father said, judging Alfred’s pathetic walk down the stairs, moping as he walked to the kitchen. Alfred grunted in submission.

“What’s with the fancy meat in the oven?” Alfred asked him, voice hoarse, not looking at his father as he opened a cabinet.

“Your mother is coming to dinner.” He replied.

_Smash_.

Alfred had dropped the bowl he had held.

“What?” He asked, turning around to face his father, ignoring his stern mustering of the ceramic pieces on the stained tiles of the kitchen, “Wh-When? Why?”

“I thought it would be nice.” He said, not looking up from his seat in the living room, reading a newspaper.

Alfred sighed. “Fuck.” He swore under his breath, and turned away again, hearing the crumple of his father’s newspaper, and a car driving by.

“What did you just say, young man?” His father sneered, raising his voice, “You know what I think about swearing in this house.”

“I’m sorry.” Alfred replied, rolling his eyes, “It’s just- Never mind.”

_Arthur_.

Arthur didn’t reply to his confession.

Arthur had awkwardly left after he had stopped crying, and said he would see him in school.

Alfred, for the second time in mere minutes, sighed, and decided that today would be an _absolute shit_ day.

The doorbell rang.

Alfred saw two figures, through the glass window, although it was contorted.

He stood in the hallway, stiffly, and saw his father open the door.

“Hi, Madeline. How are you?” He asked Alfred’s mother, who smiled awkwardly. She had his eyes, and had Matthew’s slightly darker than Alfred’s own hair colour.

It was nice.

 

The boy next to her grinned at Alfred.

He was also nice.

 

“Alfred!” His father shouted, “Say hi.”

“Hi.” Alfred complied.

They stood in silence. Alfred slowly looked at his mother.

She hadn’t really changed since the awkward invitation to tea at her place when they moved. That’s when he met Matthew.

That had been awkward, too.

He asked Matthew for his homework.

He complied.

Maybe he was just trying to be friendly.

Maybe he thought it was necessary. They were related, whether they liked it or not.

 

Matthew was really nice. Nicer than Alfred. He wasn’t shy, and not really kind. He was just a kid, with dreams that would never come true.

 

His mother was nice, too.

His father wasn’t.

 

His father lost his temper. His father slapped his mother, and his father hit Alfred, only to reluctantly apologise and cry afterwards.

 

He liked his mother more than his father.

He liked Matthew more than himself.

 

“Why don’t you come in?” His father asked, a horrible smile etching his skin.

“It smells lovely,” His mother replied, “Is that roast?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He answered, coughing awkwardly, and taking their coats. Alfred leaned on the stair railing. Matthew smiled at him a little, and Alfred couldn’t bring himself to smile back. He merely stared down at the floor.

“Come and sit down.” His father ordered, and led them to the living room. Alfred did not move.

“Alfred!” His father shouted, and his mother flinched a little at his loud tone. Alfred wanted to apologise to her. “Come and help me.”

Alfred swallowed and did as he was told.

:::

“So, Matthew.” His father began, cutting his piece of meat on his plate, “How’s school?”

“It’s good.” He replied politely, “I quite like it.”

“What’s your favourite subject?”

Alfred ground his teeth at the question.

 

He wasn’t interested at all. He merely asked to seem nice.

He wasn’t nice.

 

“I like the languages. I’m doing French and English.” Matthew answered, shyly looking at him.

“Funny,” His father replied, looking at Alfred, nudging him painfully in the ribs, “Those are his worst!”

Alfred closed his eyes, hearing Matthew laughing a little.

“Well, I’m bad at sciences, and Alfred’s amazing at-” Matthew started with a smile, poking at his roast.

“You can’t get a job wanting to be a goddamn pilot!” His father laughed.

“Astronaut,” Alfred grudgingly corrected, looking at him, “I want to be an astronaut.”

“That’s nice, dear.” His mother said, smiling at him. Alfred’s heart felt warm and soft at the gesture.

“Well, he’ll need to do better in his English course, that’s for sure.” His father replied, and snorted a laugh, “It’s not like he’s failing, but-”

“I did. I failed.” Alfred said after a pause.

Alfred’s father dropped his fork.

“I failed. The paper last week. I failed it.” Alfred repeated. Matthew swallowed thickly.

“I- I-” His father tried, before settling an angry scowl on his face and standing up, knocking his chair as he did. Alfred calmly took a bite of his potato.

 “You can say goodbye to sunshine, sunshine. You are _grounded_.” He finally finished.

His father snarled, punctuating each syllable, “Did Matt fail this?”

“No.” Alfred answered.

“Right. And why didn’t he fail it?” His father asked, tone shaking.

“He’s not in the course.” Alfred said, squinting at his father in confusion.

 “Right.” His father repeated, “And _you_ are going to get something, _something_ right, if it’s the last thing I do. You will _not_ be a failure. Do you understand me?” He asked.

“Do you?” He repeated, and Alfred nodded slowly, watching his father sit back down.

Matthew took a sip from his water.

“Are you a failure, Alfred?” His father asked, shouting as he spat at him.

Alfred did not wince at his words, but his vision blurred slightly as he used the sleeve of his sweater to dry his eyes.

He wanted to scream.

“Steven...” His mother said, “It’s only one paper. Surely-”

“‘He’ll get another chance-’” His father mocked her, “He won’t! Once a failure, always a failure.” He said, tone final.

“This is exactly why I divorced you!” She suddenly shouted, fork clinging on the plate, smashing it as she shook, “You’re a horrible, horrible man! Look at him! Look at your son!” She pointed at Alfred.

Alfred felt his eyes sting again.

“I- God, Steven. I thought this could be nice.” She continued, grabbing her purse and standing up, walking to the corridor, “You ruin everything.”

Matthew followed her, and with a long look at Alfred, searching his eyes for something, anything at all, he took his jacket and followed his mother out of the door, slamming it behind her.

“Bye,” He said to his father, tone grim.

Alfred looked at the broken plate.

 “Shit!” His father swore loudly.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He repeated.

Alfred walked up to his room, leaving his father alone downstairs. He locked and bolted his door, just to be safe, just in case.

:::

The next morning, there was fog in the city, and it misted the windows of Alfred’s house. Slowly, he stood up, achingly walking down his stairs, trying to be silent in case his father had fallen asleep drinking again.

“How did you get those wounds?” He heard his father ask, gesturing to the marks left by Gilbert, Alfred spun to see him sitting on the couch, takeaway on the table along with cigarette stubs and beer bottles.

He was watching a television program about giraffes on National Geographic.

 

_Huh_.

 

Gilbert’s wound were slowly but surely healing.

They probably won’t scar.

Gilbert had apologised, anyhow, and everything should be fine.

 

Arthur, Alfred, Francis, Gilbert and Elizabeta should be fine.

 

Arthur and Alfred should be fine.  


They should be fine, both of them-

Honest-to-God _together_ -

 

“I was defending the honour of my friend.”  Alfred settled on, sitting next to him reluctantly, as though he were pitying him.

“Oh. Okay.” He heard his father say, voice hoarse.

“My boyfriend.” He complied, sitting back and trying to calmly read his father’s expression, which was slow to react.

_Lies_.

 “I- I- Right.” He settled on, swallowing and staring straight ahead.

“Yeah.” Alfred nodded.

“... Good. Alright. Okay.” His father said, and Alfred prepared for the worst.

He could just live at his mother’s, if push comes to shove, and his father is not only an asshole but a homophobic asshole.

Hell, was Alfred even gay?

He was gay for Arthur, that was sure.

“You- You could invite him over for dinner.” His father said slowly.

After a moment of surprise, Alfred replied “He’d like that.”

Arthur probably wouldn’t.

Arthur wasn’t even his boyfriend.

“Yeah. Okay. So- What’s- Who- What’s his name?”

_Fuck it._

“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. You remember him, right?”

“... I do. I liked him. He was nice.”

“He is nice.”

His is more than nice.

He’s practically perfect.

_Fuck_.

Alfred watched his father nod slowly and lick his lips, before looking down, and swallowing. “Relationships are complicated. Sometimes, you know- You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

_So that’s how it is._

He was feeling guilty for Alfred’s dysfunctional, fucked up family life.

The fights with his mother.

The drinking and smoking.

_About time, too._

“I don’t. I blame _you_.” Alfred said, tone serious.

 “I know. And you-” His father started.

 “Shut up!”  He suddenly shouted, voice cracking.

Alfred’s breaths came as unsteady heaves as he quietly asked, “Why did you let her go?”

“Al-” His father pleaded tiredly.

“Because you’re fucking useless, you fucking idiot. You stupid bastard.” He stood up and continued loudly, “You fucking stupid bastard! That’s my fucking _mom_! And she’s fucking _gone_!”

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s a bit late for that.” Alfred turned around and grabbed the house phone from the side table, throwing it in his father’s lap who hesitantly touched it.

 “You have to call her.” Alfred ordered.

“It won’t do any good-”

“Call her! Or- Or you’re fucking grounded until you get her back. Say goodbye to sunshine, _sunshine_.” Alfred finished and walked back upstairs.

 “Alfred!” His father shouted after him.

“I’ve got things to do!” He finished, and slammed his door.

:::

On his bicycle outside, Alfred did not concern himself with the question of whether or not his father did call his mother or not.

He didn’t really care.

His father would probably just fuck it up.

Alfred had other plans.

 

Outside Arthur’s house, he stopped with a screeching halt and stared at Arthur’s window, as though his eyes alone could order Arthur to come forward.

The curtains remained still.

Alfred took out his phone and called Arthur’s number, who, naturally, did not answer.

It made sense. The last time he saw Arthur, he was tired and ruined, broken and fragile, and Alfred failed to hand him glue to fix himself and instead threw him out of a window, leaving him to bleed on broken glass.

All hopes lost, Alfred tried the front door.

After a large number or loud knocks, he saw Arthur in front of him. His hair was messy, and he looked tired, with dark eye rings underneath his still far too bright and intense eyes. He was wearing his pyjamas. They were stained. He smelled of smoke. He directed his glare, the oh-so-familiar look that Alfred had begun to love and hate, because it meant that Arthur was slowly but surely isolating himself and closing himself away from the world, and away from Alfred.

_I can’t lose you again._

After staring at him, Arthur began to close the door, but Alfred stepped his foot in. Arthur mustered him again, expecting words.

“Wait.” Alfred addressed, “Look- I- I’m shit at this.”

Arthur did not say anything, and his expression was unfazed.

He was numb.

_Isolated-_

_Tired, so tired-_

“I’m sick of this. Just fucking listen, alright? Don’t cry, don’t hit anyone, just listen, ‘cause you’re the shittiest listener I’ve ever met.” Alfred pleaded, arms hanging numbly at his sides.

Arthur folded his arms and leaned against the door frame, eyes flickering with a slight curiosity, although his expression remained serious.

 “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. I’ll tell you a thousand times over and over again: I love you. I love you, Arthur Kirkland.” He hung his head down and continued sadly, “I love your smile. I love your eyes, your hair. I love your fucking nose.”

Arthur’s hands dropped to his sides as his eyes widened. Alfred looked up at him and continued, his voice cracking, “I love you, all of you. Your fucked up faults and just everything. I’ve never not loved you. I won’t ever stop loving you.

Arthur’s expression remained stony, and Alfred inhaled a sharp breath before continuing, “So quit ignoring me and say something, because I’m gonna do what I wanted to do from the moment I first saw you.”

And with that, Alfred threw his intuition out of the window and grabbed Arthur towards him, hands on either side of his face, planting a firm but sloppy kiss on his lips.

Arthur did not pull away.

Arthur reacted.

Arthur pulled him towards himself, arms flung clumsily around Alfred’s upper torso.

He tasted like smoke, and black tea, and generally, quite bitter.

It fit.

_They_ fit.

It was nice.

Alfred hesitantly placed a hand on Arthur’s cheek, caressing his face, and the other around his waist, and he wanted to smile when he felt Arthur do the same, as he shifted to place a hand on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder. They merely pressed into each other, towards each other, and Alfred wanted to dive deeper into Arthur, bearing his soul and heart and simply everything to him.

Arthur tilted his head, slightly, and invitingly opened his mouth, allowing Alfred to move deeper, and it was sloppy and hesitant, for Alfred was too clumsy, and there was far too much teeth and spit for Alfred to find it pleasing, yet it was probably the most perfect feeling he had ever experience. He wanted to feel Arthur and only Arthur every day for the rest of his life.

In his vigour, Arthur was almost catapulted backwards, and he was dipped slightly, with Alfred’s hands securely holding him at the small of his back. Each time Arthur tried to pull away, Alfred merely pulled him back in. He knew that Arthur could have done a multitude of things: He could have kicked his ass to high heaven.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

He reciprocated the kisses, the caresses, the sheer passion Alfred had poured from the bottom of his soul, the emotions he had thrown towards Arthur, the life and thoughts he had catapulted into Arthur all over again.

He did not faint from happiness, and his knees did not give way, nor did he feel fireworks or butterflies.

He just felt Arthur.

And Arthur was more than enough.

He felt Arthur’s touch, the way the threaded through his hair and gripped his shoulders, the way his mouth moved and was smooth yet chapped and sharp.

Alfred hesitantly pulled away before they would get carried away.

Arthur stared at Alfred, and slowly but surely removed his hands, standing again at the doorframe.

Alfred swallowed, and watched Arthur frown, eyes seeming distant.

“Hey, Arthur? Arthur, why aren’t you saying anything?” Alfred asked, and watched Arthur shift his feet awkwardly in silence.

 “We can make it.” He continued, “We can do this. I want to take you to dinner. I want to show you the world. Just the two of us, okay? We can make it anywhere.”

“... Don’t be silly, Alfred.” He said, although his voice was hoarse, for the lack of thinking of anything else in awe of Alfred’s words and promises, spoken earnestly and tenderly, as though it were only Arthur and no one else he would ever want.

“I’m not. I’m serious. When we’re done with school, done with college and everything, we’ll be together. And then I’ll marry you, and we’ll have a garden and a car and a dog. A cat, too, if you want one.” Alfred replied, and his eyes were drilling themselves into Arthur’s own gaze, and he felt his heart sting while looking Alfred, at his stained shirt and messy hair, at his shifted glasses and his blushed cheeks.

“... You’d want to marry me?” Arthur said, breath short.

“Well, yeah. Not now, obviously, but some day. I- I- I can’t think of anyone else. No one else would do. It’d have to be you.”

Arthur swallowed. “You’ve got big plans. Too big. I- They won’t come true. They’ll fail. Nothing is permanent.”

He began to close the door, but Alfred stepped his foot in the way and shouted, “Come on, Arthur!”

“No!” Arthur shouted in reply, “You’ll leave me, some day, or maybe I’ll leave you. It seems fun now, but you can’t honestly think I’m the love of your life?”

 “... Why can’t I think that? You’re perfect-” Alfred began, tone soft.

“I’m not! I drink and smoke, I’ve got a horrible temper and I’m bitch-”

“You’re not!” Alfred pleaded.

“We’ll get bored of each other someday-”

“Arthur, why are you so cynical?” Alfred asked, spitting the question out like an insult, as though they were poisoned words.

Alfred was never good with words.

“You see? Do you see why would this ever work out?” Arthur tried.

 “We can make it work, Arthur! We’d fight all the time, but-”

“You deserve better.” Arthur slammed the door, not acknowledging the obstacle of Alfred’s foot.

“Arthur!” Alfred shouted after him, banging on the shut door in desperation.

He ran his hand through his hair in desperation, before loudly shouting “Fuck!” and staring at the sky.

It was grey, all grey, and it began to rain down onto Alfred, who merely accepted his fate.

:::

At home, Alfred slammed the front door and stared down at his drenched and stained trainers, wet fringe blocking some of the sight, as well as the droplets on his glasses.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father, in the same position as this morning, who spoke up, “You okay?”

“Yep.” Alfred lied.

Against all odds, he felt so drained he decided to sit next to him on the sofa.

The television showed eagles on National Geographic.

“I think I dumped Arthur.” Alfred said quietly, “Or maybe he broke up with me.”

After a pause, his father looked into his empty glass and lowly replied, “Don‘t let someone walk out of your life without noticing it.”

Alfred swallowed. “Yeah. I won’t. I promised him I wouldn’t.”

His father nodded, and watched Alfred stand up, a smile directed at him, and it seemed sad and melancholic.

“Thanks, dad.” Alfred said.

“No problem, Alfred.” He replied after a pause, and turned his head back to the television, shaking his head a little, though still smiling.

:::

The next morning, the sun shone, and it blinded Alfred as he stirred awake in the kitchen, making instant coffee with his NASA mug that one of his friends in America had gotten him for his last birthday.

None of them had written to him after he had moved.

Including Arthur.

_Liars_.

_Dirty fucking liars._

Sighing, Alfred adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked at his phone before trying to call Arthur.

He had to do it, sooner or later.

He couldn’t handle being without him. It hurt him to think about it, but it was true. He wanted him, desperately, but nothing was as it should have been, it was imperfect, and not perfectly so. It was calculated with desperate uncertainty and Alfred’s intuition had broken the fine glass that Arthur had placed between them, however, while doing so, he had manage to scar and cut both of them, painfully.

_Maybe they needed time to heal._

_Maybe-_

_Just maybe-_

“Jesus, no fucking signal,” Alfred muttered, and walked around a little in the kitchen, holding the phone to his ear and speaking onto his answering machine after a few rings, “Look, Arthur, I’m- I’m sorry about uh, last night. We- We should talk.”

He saw his father in the exact same position as last night.

His eyes were pointed straight ahead and his expression was frozen.

Slowly, he walked towards him.

His phone dropped on the ground.

Staring curiously at him, he asked quietly, “Dad?”

He walked closer.

His father wasn’t breathing.

He held a cigarette in his hand which was stony and cold. The drink was also still held, and it wasn’t empty. There was some gin in the glass.

“Dad?” Alfred repeated, hoarsely, and he sat down next to him.

His father did not move.

His eyes were open.

Staring ahead.

His chest was still.

He wasn’t breathing.

 

_Fuck_.

 

Alfred ran a hand through his hair and his eyes flickered, stinging as tears began to roll down, but he could not move, and stayed there, sitting next to him, collapsing and breaking as he realised the gravity of the situation.

He wasn’t breathing-

He wasn’t breathing-

He wasn’t-

He couldn’t be-

 

_Call Matthew._

 

Close your eyes.

Count to ten.

Fall apart-

Start again.

:::

“I can’t go in.” Alfred said, gesturing to the door of the living room. His eyes were blank.

 “Yes, you can.” Matthew repeated, and took Alfred’s shoulder, walking with him in the room.

“Fucking hell.” Alfred whispered, and it sounded empty in the house.

 “Fucking...” Matthew voiced, tone breaking. His expression changed abruptly.

 “Yeah.” Alfred said, not tearing his eyes away from his father’s body.

“Fucking hell.” Matthew walked closer, “Dad?”

No answer.

 “Is this really happening?” Alfred stated in a whisper again.

Matthew nodded slowly.

“I think so.” He said, and closed his eyes, his gaze flickering to the floor.

Alfred gaped and tried to form words. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Ring someone.” Matthew settled on.

“I- I can’t. They won’t come. No one will come.” Alfred replied flatly.

Matt gave him the home phone.

“He was so- Oh, Christ.” Alfred broke.

It sounded painful. They stare.

“Dad? What do I do?” Al asked, looking at his father, as if expecting an answer.

Slowly in the silence, he dialled a number.

“... Mom?” Alfred asked, his face contouring as his mouth stretched and he let a horrible, pained shout before breaking and crying. Matthew pulled him towards himself, holding onto him as he felt his own chest heave and tears falling onto Alfred’s shoulder. His glasses skewed, Alfred’s hands clawed at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be probably become un-regular again because school sucks 5ever.
> 
> Soon they will have fun and everything will be okay.
> 
> SoON I PROMISE PLEASE HANG WITH ME.
> 
> i said there would be usuk and pruhun and god help me there will be.


	5. Francis.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fathom the ocean, dark and deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:
> 
> Chiara- Female South Italy  
> Mathias Andersen- Denmark  
> Lukas Thomassen- Norway  
> Michelle Mancham- Seychelles
> 
> (The opera that Arthur and Alfred hear and talk about is ‘Madame Butterfly’. First it’s ‘Un bel di, vedremo’, and then it’s ‘Tosca’ and ‘Vissi d’arte’. ‘S nice. 10/10 would recommend.)

Chapter Five: Francis.

_Some things are very beautiful._

_It is painful._

_So very painful._

_Lonely, too, for me._

_All things are beautiful._

_Each in a different way._

_In order to understand that, I had to destroy myself._

_Again and again and again-_

_Beginning in a new country, alone-_

_Living in a boarding home, alone-_

_Meeting new people-_

_They made me not feel alone._

_I belonged._

_Some things are so beautiful you only understand so once they themselves are destroyed._

_Now I understand that the tragedy is that they were beautiful, so very beautiful._

:::

Adjusting his brown satchel so that his heavy grocery bags would be more comfortably placed in his palms, Francis sighed, and squinted up towards the sky, his eyes following three birds flying across the clouds. It was a sunny day, but nonetheless the air was moist and wet, most likely caused by the surge of rain and thunderstorms in recent times.

As his eyes reached the pier, he stopped walking.

 _Alfred_.

Dropping his grocery bags in front of him, Alfred slowly turned his head away from the water to look at Francis.

“My dad died.” He spoke in a hoarse voice, staring distantly at the moving water. It was muddy, perhaps because it seemed to be reflecting all of the tainted light that shone from the sky and from the people living in the world, those whose light was stained long ago. Alfred seemed to be shining, to be young, to be refreshingly clear, naive even, and in a way, Francis found him fascinating and nevertheless beautiful, as he shone brightly and stirred up all of the lives that Arthur, Francis, Gilbert and the others had neatly placed, lives of drinking and calculated sleepless nights, of unusual love and trust to each other, and of familiarity.

Francis swallowed thickly. “You have my condolences.”

After a pause, Alfred continued, “Thanks.”

Francis nodded, and looked at Alfred, watching him stammer before saying, “I think Arthur broke up with me. Or maybe I broke up with him.”

Francis sighed. “He’s so complex, _non_?”

“Yeah, he is. What a bastard.” Alfred grumbled.

“You don’t mean that, do you?” Francis asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Alfred groaned, “I don’t. It’s sad that I don’t.”

“Hm,” Francis agreed, “He needs love.”

Alfred looked at him sharply, listening to him continue, “He has a heart, and it’s so full of love it scares him. Don’t let him trick you, don’t let him allow you to leave him.”

Alfred swallowed thickly.

“Don’t lose him again.” Francis continued, looking at the water, “He needs you, and you need him.”

“Yeah.” Alfred whispered hoarsely after hearing the wind rush through the pier.

“Go to him.” Francis said, and Alfred spun his head sharply to look at him, as though the idea and the very thought of seeing Arthur were a dangerous, insane one.

“Please, Alfred,” Francis pleaded, “I want him to be happy.”

“You- You think _I_ can make him happy?” Alfred laughed sadly.

“Well, I have known him for a long time, not as a child, but as the person he became after you left. He distanced himself, sheltered himself... But he is open, again. Open to you, and perhaps a little to me, too.” Francis replied, “You have a... How do you say? You have ‘a shot at it’, Alfred. Silly English sayings, hm?”

“Why-  I mean, like- Why do you say that? Why me? I’m so ordinary.” Alfred mumbled.

“You underestimate yourself, _mon cher_.” Francis sighed, “We are all extraordinary in different way. If all of us were ordinary, it would be boring. Our faults and difficulties make us interesting, but our strengths, and we each have our own, make us _beautiful_.”

Alfred ran a hand through his hair nervously and looked at Francis, curiously and shyly.

“Your greatest strengths are Arthur’s weaknesses. Do you realise that?” Francis asked, “You are so hopeful and willing, willing to believe in a better future. He is so tired, Alfred, tired of thinking and feeling. He really does need you. He wants to allow you to enter his life, to destroy his old ways and begin the new, but it’s hard: He was alone for a long time, before I met him... He is exhausted, _mon cher_. Emotionally and physically exhausted. He wants to give up, Alfred, he is tired of everything and everyone.”

Alfred looked out at the water again.

“Don’t let him fall asleep again,” Francis finalised, “Let him wake-up with _you_.”

“Fuck,” Alfred whispered, and gasped before shouting, “Fuck!”

Alfred’s eyes widened, spun, and began to run away from Francis, from the pier and from the murky waters, but quickly returned when he remembered his manners, “Yeah- _Fuck_ \- Okay.”

Francis laughed mildly at the flailing American.

“Hm,” He hummed to himself, “Oh, Arthur. Where do you find such people?”

_How do you let them out of your life?_

_Why do you hurt yourself in such a way?_

_Why did you never speak to him after he moved?_

_Why do you push him out of your life?_

_Again, and again, and again-_

 

His attention was quickly drawn to his phone ringing in his bag.

 _“Listen, I’m making your shitty-ass cake and fucked it up.”_ Gilbert said loudly in his ear, a loud clanging noise in the background.

“Gateau.” Francis corrected.

_“Gesundheit.”_

Francis perched himself on his heels, and listened further to Gilbert. _“Help me out, man. I’m trying to make it up with my princess.”_

“Ah, she is now ‘your princess’?” Francis smiled, and shook his head.

_“I wish she were. Help me out, bro. I’ve put the flour in....”_

:::

 _“Okay, did that.”_ Gilbert surged.

“Parfait. Now, simply-”

 _“Ah, shit!”_ He shouted.

“What happened?”

_“I dropped it.”_

“...”

_“No worries, I’ll just- Oopsie daisy- Scoop it back in... There we go. Done.”_

Francis scratched his forehead and smiled at the sky.

 _“Thanks, dude! Wish me luck!”_ Gilbert said, and hung up.

 

_Don’t be alone._

_Allow them to enter your life, and destroy you._

_Destruction can be so beautiful._

:::

Gilbert had rung Elizabeta’s doorbell three times before her mother answered it with a frown at Gilbert’s dishevelled appearance.

 “Hi. Is Elizabeta home? I need to speak with her.” Gilbert asked with a bright smile.

Her mother leaned on the door frame, raised her chin and mustered him, judging his dirty shirt and hands.

“She’s gone down to the shops.” She finally replied.

“... I bought a _gateau_. Chocolate. ‘S French, made it myself.” Gilbert said with a lopsided smile and a tilt of his head towards the cake in his hand.

“Oh, my favourite. Cheers.” She snatched it out of his hands, and slammed the door.

_Fuck it._

_Cannot-_

_I will not-_

_Not losing her again-_

_Not again-_

_Never again._

:::

At the local small supermarket at the corner of the road, Elizabeta sighed in front of the selection of ‘ _Female Hygiene’_ , and frowned at the laughing, smiling perfect women on each package. The woman at the counter chewed her gum, playing with her hair.

There was no one else in the store.

Elizabeta began to reach forward to the least expensive option, a package in pastel pink laced with daisies, when a loud _“Hey! Wait!”_ was shouted, and she retracted her hand quickly, gasping and looking up to the ceiling, at the bright white lights as though it were God’s voice, trying to make her obey his orders against tampons.

 _Fuck_.

_It’s a sign._

_She really must go to church more often-_

“God?” She asked quietly and curiously to the lights.

“No, it’s Gilbert.” A voice said behind her, and she spun to be face to face with Gilbert, hair messy and stains on his shirt, “Hey, princess.”

Elizabeta merely stared.

“Don’t ignore me, you shit!” He shouted.

She rolled her eyes and lurched towards him, shouting as well, “Fine! Don’t insult me, then!”

“Fine!” He exclaimed, raising his hands.

“Fine!” She replied.

_It was parachuting-_

_You can either jump, or chicken-out._

Gilbert tried to muster a snarky one-liner, but gave up after opening and closing his mouth multiple times.

He grabbed Elizabeta’s face, roughly, hand on each cheek, and firmly planted a kiss on her lips.

It said more than words, it placed a boundary of the sentences they never meant, and a bond of the emotions they had never said, never admitted, but felt so strongly.

It was messy, and a little disgusting.

It was absolutely perfect.

Elizabeta surged her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, opening her mouth to him, it was warm and comforting. He pushed forward, arms on her waist and the small of her back, fingers pressing harshly in her skin. She fell back against the aisle of tampons, two or three packages landing on the floor.

_Falling, falling deeper and deeper into Gilbert and all of Gilbert._

“God, I hate you- But fuck, I love you.” Elizabeta said after breaking free, face still close to Gilbert.

“Fuck you! I love you more! You’re so beautiful, you dipshit!” Gilbert shouted, and kissed her briefly, “Be my fucking girlfriend, you dick!

 “Okay!” Elizabeta replied, in an equally loud voice.

 “Fuck yeah!” He shouted again, and kissed her once more, deeply, with slightly more finesse and coordination that they had lacked.

_We can get it right._

_We can make it._

_We can do this-_

“I want to take you out for dinner. Pretend that what happened never happened.” He whispered on her lips.

It was a sudden shift from their earlier loud words, and Elizabeta gaped at him before answering with a laugh and a smile, “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll start again. And I- I’m gonna try so fucking hard. No half-assing.” She promised, looking deep into his eyes.

“No half-assing.” He smiled.

“Good.” She smiled sweetly, and laughed quietly, feeling tears sting her eyes as she wiped Gilbert’s away with smooth fingers and rough, bitten nails and chipped nail-polish.

_Falling-_

_Again and again._

:::

The sky was closing up, and as Alfred looked up at Arthur’s house, he assumed that it would begin to rain any second. He rang the door bell for the third time, and stuck his hands in his pockets, idly balancing on the balls of his feet.

As the door opened slowly, he saw a disbelieved Arthur in the same damn stained pyjamas look at him with a certain mistrust that hurt Alfred’s heart and head.

He looked tired.

As he began to close the door, Alfred struck forward and objected.

“Arthur. Arthur, don’t walk away from this.” He began, and Arthur briefly stopped, mustering him and through his stare into Alfred’s eyes, he begged him to continue and he wanted to listen, listen further to Alfred’s lies and truths, to see Alfred and feel him, and only him.

“I won’t let you walk away from this,” Alfred repeated, words fragile, “I won’t let you.”

Arthur swallowed, and he watched Alfred continued, “We need to talk. We need to...”

 “Don’t leave me.” Alfred said after stammering for a while, voice cracking and taking a step towards Arthur, who idly walked towards him, too, standing outside his house on the concrete.

“Just, don’t... Don’t fucking... Fuck. I love you. I fucking love you.” Alfred finalised, and Arthur let loose a sound that resembled a sob and a gasp, as though he were a drowning man, or a man in church begging for salvation.

_Alfred was-_

_Alfred is-_

_Alfred always will be-_

Arthur grabbed Alfred’s face, a hand on each cheek, and pulled it towards him, firmly placing a kiss on his lips. In sheer surprise, Alfred gasped, opening his mouth, and Arthur took the opportunity to delve further towards him and into him, tasting him, savouring him and saving him, saving him from more things than either could believe. Alfred secured Arthur and wrapped his hands around his waist as Arthur moved to tilt his head, deepening the kiss further, and snaking his hands and arms around Alfred’s neck, tangling a hand in his messy hair as Alfred shifted closer to him, chests flushed. Arthur’s feet were lifted a little from the sheer force, and their balance was tilted.

It began to rain.

Arthur’s hair was flat on his head when Alfred pulled back, glasses laced with raindrops and skewed.

“You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” Arthur said hoarsely, voice breaking, as if pleading, “Why would I ever _want_ to let you go?”  

“Don’t leave me,” Arthur continued hastily, and Alfred decided in this rainy storm that Arthur was definitely absolutely positively _beautiful_ , “Don’t- Don’t ever leave me. I don’t want you to. It’s just... I- I won’t manage it, without you I-”

“I know. I’ve got you. It’s okay. We’re okay.” Alfred whispered onto his lips, and gently grazed Arthur’s own, “We can forget about this if you want to.”

 “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done forgetting.” Arthur replied quickly in a whisper, and surged forward again to kiss Alfred deeply.

Alfred raked his hands over his back, under his shirt, onto his hipbones, and Arthur shifted slightly to line their bodies together, as though there would be a perfect line of symmetry between them, a line that defined them in terms of each other.

The way Arthur moved his body and hands, draping across Alfred’s shoulder and the back of his neck, through his hair and his chest quickly caused Alfred more pleasure, or perhaps difficulties through it, than he thought.

Reluctantly, he pulled back, stammering at the absolutely drenched Arthur, and said bluntly, “It’s raining.”

Arthur nodded, averting his eyes, and Alfred smiled lopsidedly at him, and felt his head buzz as Arthur grabbed his hand and dragged him inside.

Placing his arms around his neck again, he closed the door with a very flexible leg, and Alfred found himself caressing Arthur and all of Arthur, no more complicated layers covering and shielding him.

Leaning towards Arthur in a clumsy, misplaced certainty which Arthur would too-little annoying and far too adorning and _loveable_ , Alfred was pushed onto the stairs, and Arthur climbed on top of him, placing himself in his lap as he broke free and continued to kiss down his jaw and neck, biting and licking at the skin connecting his ear and his neck. His skin was cold, and wet. Alfred gasped as Arthur grinned against his flesh, enjoying the broad palms on his back and backside.

The sharp edge of the stairs dug into Alfred’s spine, but he nonetheless pulled Arthur into another kiss, a gentler one, Alfred’s lips soft and Arthur’s slightly chapped.

Tangling a hand in Arthur’s hair, Alfred pulled away, slowly, and etched the calm expression on Arthur’s face, and the way his fringe was sticking to his forehead, hair messy, pale skin wet and a slight blush tainting the freckles across his nose and sharp jaw, his lips pink and flush, mouth agape.

“Hey,” Alfred whispered, leaning his forehead against Arthur’s and watching his eyes open to stare into his own, “You- We should be together. We can do this.”

“Do you- Do you really think that?” Arthur replied quietly, feeling his breath on his lips.

“Yes.” Alfred laughed, and Arthur studied his face with a serious expression, trailing a finger across his jaw.

“God, Arthur. Fuck.” He continued, and kissed his cheek sloppily, a hand coming up to mess his hair.

After a pause, Alfred swallowed and whispered, “I love you.”

Arthur frowned, almost sadly, and rested his palm on Alfred’s cheek.

“You say that an awful a lot of times... I-Those- I- Are you...” He asked slowly, “I mean-”

“I know what you think. I know you don’t really believe in things like that, but hear me out, okay?” Alfred swallowed and caressed Arthur’s face again, watching his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

“We don’t have to get married or anything like that. This isn’t final. It’s just- Let’s start this. We really have a shot at this.” Alfred’s voice was fragile, “We should- I don’t want to waste this opportunity at starting something that could be the best damn thing in my life. I don’t want to lose you.”

Arthur stared at Alfred, watching him continue, “Even if you don’t- If you hate it... We can stop, but I promise you that this can be worth it, okay? Just- Damn it, trust me.” Alfred finished, and watched Arthur’s lips tremble as he watched Alfred, “Don’t- I don’t want to lose you again. Don’t throw this away after all this time-”

“No.” Arthur interrupted sharply, and Alfred stared at him silence, watching him open his mouth multiple times, stammering before inhaling a sharp breath and speaking, voice breaking as he said delicate words.

 “I’d- I’d like to believe your words, Alfred. You lie so beautifully.”

“They aren’t lies. It’s all truths, Arthur.” Alfred replied, “You believe me, don’t you?”

“... I do.” Arthur said after a pause, still looking deeply into his eyes.

“Alfred- Alfred, I-” Arthur gasped, and stared further. Alfred shivered slightly at the intensity of the gaze, and Arthur continued quietly, “I’ve loved you for a very long time, in many different ways, even when I could not admit that I could ever want it.”

Alfred looked deeply into his eyes, never being able to look away, as Arthur continued, “I’ve loved you even when I never wanted a heart. I love you so much it pains me and scares me, and I hate you for it.”

Alfred swallowed thickly and smiled, letting lose a watery laugh of pure elation and relief as the rain created a steady rhythm on the windows of Arthur’s house. Arthur joined him, eyes bright.

It felt finite-

Final-

:::

The next morning, Arthur awoke in his bed with the heavy weight of Alfred’s leg over his hip and his arm around his waist. Arthur’s own cheek was pressed onto Alfred’s chest, and it was warm, almost too warm and comfortable, to such an extent that it hurt Arthur to bear the thought of leaving the bed. He shifted slightly, slowly and with too much regret at the motion. Alfred groaned and turned his head to try and continue to capture Arthur and pin him to the bed. Arthur sighed and let a hand run through Alfred’s hair, pulling it slightly to force Alfred to look at him directly, basking in his morning-glory of bad breath, slight drool, messy hair and glazed eyes, as well as the beautiful, lopsided lazy grin directed at him.

Arthur smiled sloppily when Alfred dropped his body over Arthur’s own, the heavy weight constricting his movements.

Alfred let a satisfied sigh out when he felt Arthur’s slender hand return to massaging his scalp and carding his far too soft hair.

“Hi.” He mumbled deeply, craning his head to look at Arthur again.

“Hi yourself.” Arthur replied, and placed himself in Alfred’s lap as he rolled him onto his back, touching his face and smiling down at him before kissing him softly.

“You have such weird bed-hair.” Alfred mumbled as he leaned back and mustered Arthur with a lazy grin.

“And you have horrible morning breath.” Arthur replied, but nonetheless leaned towards him again, and opened his mouth onto his, kissing him deeply again, breathing sharply through his nose, feeling Alfred’s large palms run over his hip bones as he lifted his shirt and hooked into Arthur’s stained sweatpants.

Arthur sighed into his mouth and felt his muscles relax under Alfred’s touch, wanting to deepen the feeling and fall, fall into Alfred and always falling, more and more-

_Da-Ding._

Arthur groaned and pulled away, leaning over Alfred to grab his phone from the near-by desk. Unlocking it, he frowned at the screen.

Alfred sat up, and Arthur tilted it to show him Francis’s message.

_“Bonjour mon lapin! Come to the boarding house with a car, if possible. You are cordially invited to the beach ;) Bring your swimsuit.”_

Arthur sighed as he typed: “Who else is coming? This better not be a date or I’ll cut your balls off, you frog.”

_“Do not worry. I know you are taken ;)”_

Alfred grinned as he began to kneed and massage Arthur’s waist, ignoring his blush as he replied, “JUST ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION YOU PIECE OF SHIT”

_“Me, you, Alfred, naturally, Gil, Eli, Toni, Chiara, his new girlfriend, she is charming, Mathias, Lukas, Michelle, she is fantastic, mon cher, and anyone else you want.”_

“Well?” Arthur looked at Alfred, “Do you want to go?”

“Sure, why not?” Alfred replied, “We can steal my mom’s minivan. Matthew can drive, he’s fun. Francis knows him anyway. They have French together.”

Arthur made a non-committal noise at Alfred’s words, and Alfred continued with a small laugh, “Besides, it’s nice weather, and you should really get some sun. You’re so pale, dude!”

Arthur sneered as he tackled Alfred and let his body lie down on him.

“And here I thought that you were a nice boyfriend.” He muttered into his chest.

Alfred ran a hand down his back. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Arthur stammered and lifted himself to face Alfred, who smiled sweetly at Arthur.

“That’s nice. ‘Should take you to dinner sometime, and to meet my mom. She’s nice.” Alfred hummed, “Dad liked you too, you know. He said so.”

Arthur smiled sadly at Alfred. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Alfred.”

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Thanks. He’d like you to come to the funeral. It’s next week.”

“Sure.” Arthur said warmly and softly as he draped his leg across Alfred’s own. Alfred wrapped an arm around him, Arthur lying on his side and resting his head on his broad shoulder. Alfred’s fingers traced Arthur’s skin, and Arthur closed his eyes.

“Shouldn’t we leave the house?” Alfred asked, with no intention of moving.

“We’ve got time.” Arthur sighed.

“Okay.” Alfred hummed, and listened at the sound of violins and a harp.

“What’s that?” He asked curiously.

“Neighbour,” Arthur explained, “Opera enthusiast.”

“‘S nice.” Alfred mumbled, and Arthur leaned across Alfred’s body for his packet of cigarettes. Alfred gave him one, he was closer, and lit it, taking a drag before handing it to Arthur. He watched the smoke rise, and the patterns it created in the air.

“‘Real nice.” He continued, and Arthur exhaled his smoke and offered it to Alfred again, who took it gratuitously, adjusting his arms around Arthur’s shoulders.

“Isn’t it Italian?” Alfred questioned, gesturing at the music.

“Yes,” Arthur replied after a while, “I think so.”

“Hm. It’s a little sad.”

“Yes, a little bit,” Arthur looked at Alfred, expression intense and serious, as though he were observing Alfred deeply. He dragged a finger across his cheek and jaw. “But also beautiful. So very beautiful.”

Alfred swallowed and tightened his grip around Arthur as Arthur opened his mouth, mouthing at Alfred’s pulse point, his neck, and across his shoulders and collar-bone as the music played on, moving as though it were a steady river. Alfred pulled Arthur up, taking his cigarette and extinguishing it quickly in the ash-tray on the floor next to Arthur’s bed. Alfred leaned to him again and kissed him, sweetly, tangling a hand through his hair on the nape of his neck.

_He was falling-_

_More, always more-_

_But never enough-_

_Falling-_

_Deeper and deeper-_

_Always falling-_

 

_Da-Ding._

Groaning, Arthur reluctantly pulled away to look at his phone. Sighing, he got up and stretched, raising his arms and letting his back crack. Alfred sat up to scratch his head and put on his glasses. Arthur turned around, light hitting the back of his head, and he seemed to glow.

“You look like an angel,” Alfred said earnestly, “A real angel. Without wings, though.”

“So a person.” Arthur replied with a small grin, and pulled his shirt off to get dressed.

Alfred sighed at the view, watching Arthur’s muscles flex with his movements, and at the expanse of freckles on his shoulders and lower back, all the way down to his-

“I’m not a piece of meat, Alfred.” Arthur drawled, “I can hear you objectifying me.”

 Pulling the covers off, Alfred laughed lowly, stood up and put on his jeans over his absolute favourite rocket-ship boxers, the sight of which caused Arthur to laugh hysterically last night, with a swift movement, as well as the sweatshirt and t-shirt he had chosen to wear yesterday.

“Don’t even think about bringing something to swim in,” Arthur motioned as he put a simple black and white striped thin sweater on, “The water is far too cold.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Alfred mumbled, “What’s the point of going to the beach if you can’t swim?”

“It’s more of a coast, really.” Arthur replied, “You surely remember it. We used to go all the time.”

“I do,” Alfred reminisced, “‘S always cold as balls.”

“Indeed.” Arthur said as he grabbed his phone to place it in the pocket of his jeans, rolled up neatly at the ankles and flattering his long, skinny legs. Alfred tied his sneakers as Arthur searched for his second shoe, Oxfords, naturally, simple black sleek sunglasses perched on his head and Alfred looked under the bed, pulling it out. With a word of gratitude, Arthur laced it on his foot and led the way downstairs, locking the door and walking out of his small garden and along the pavement. Alfred quickly grabbed his bike and pulled it to his side, walking with Alfred.

Staring up at the clear, sunny sky, Arthur adjusted his sunglasses perched up on his head with the hand his keys were held in, creating a metallic scraping sound as they clashed. He placed the keys promptly in his pocket, and curiously looked at Alfred, who had been staring at him with a calm expression.

Alfred smiled at him, enjoying the warm wind in his hair, the sound of birds in the distance, and secured the hold of his arms on Arthur’s waist as Arthur leaned towards him and laughed lowly.

:::

Matthew was chosen to be the designated driver, as it was his mother’s beige minivan, and Alfred had failed his license test three times before passing out of pity. Grimacing at the open motorway and the many cars through the tainted lenses of his aviator sunglasses, Matthew switched lanes and swallowed as he glanced over to Francis, sitting next to him, who returned the gesture and smiled smugly to him and adjusting his own sunglasses before turning around, and telling a comment or story to the group behind them who laughed loudly.

Gilbert and Elizabeta as well as Mathias sat in the first row of the minivan, Gilbert currently searching for his dropped spliff and Elizabeta snorting as he clumsily fell. Lukas, grumbling and scowling, was sat in the second row next to Arthur and, naturally, Alfred next to him and shyly placing a hand on his thigh that Arthur mustered with an ironic expression and a small scoff of disbelief.

Michelle had taken the proud stance of sitting in Chiara’s run down and small fiat that an old uncle had given her years ago with Antonio as well.

Matthew could clearly imagine her awkwardly laughing at Chiara’s driving, which, as he could see in his window, was very chaotic and misplaced.

He laughed lightly, Francis joining him.

Perhaps he laughed at the absurdity of it all, too.

The absurdity of belonging to a group of people that never really belonged, never belonged to anyone or anything, not even an idea or a belief.

It was nice, to feel misplaced with others.

Francis quickly mumbled and changed the choice of the classic local pop radio as a woman announced some sort of surprise phoning game for the tenth time to the blaring music from his phone, French chansons blaring through the minivan and over everyone’s objections. Humming to the tune, Francis looked out of the window calmly, and Matthew smiled a little.

“For fucks sake, that music sounds gayer than Arthur.” Gilbert shouted.

“And I’m really quite gay!” Arthur added, leaning forward.

“You do not understand the beauty of music,” Francis chuckled, “It is classic and French.”

“All the more reason to not want to be forced to listen to it!” Arthur complied and groaned loudly when Francis turned it up.

“You cannot stop me, I have front seat, and you cannot reach me.” Francis taunted, “Poor little English boy...”

“Fuck off.” Arthur finished and folded his arms, scowling at the helpless Matthew.

“Can you not throw him out of the bloody window?” Arthur asked him.

Matthew shrugged, “I’m Canadian.”

“Commonwealth!” Arthur answered.

“Dude,” Alfred complied, “Please. All of this smooth jazz is killin’ me.”

“Aw, the lovebirds.” Francis muttered and enjoyed the noise of protest from both parties, “Very cute.”

“

:::

Upon arriving, Gilbert scrambled out of the car with a shout, Elizabeta falling out of the van behind him and taking a clumsy sip of her lukewarm, cheap beer. Matthew opened the back of the van and took out the two cherry coloured coolers, storing more beer and even a bottle of white wine that Francis had complied with. The sky was bright, almost white, and scattered with clouds, giving the day a warm breeze, but the water was cold as was the white sand, as so, it was as cold as Alfred had remembered it. Arthur inhaled the salty air and sighed happily, Alfred smiling at him behind his aviator sunglasses.

Chiara’s car had pulled up behind them, and stumbled out, slamming the door abruptly, Antonio pleading behind her in Spanish. Slowly but surely, Michelle had clumsily opened her own door and groaned.

“Never again,” She said to the gaping group, “I hate couples. One moment they’re fighting, and the next Antonio was basically gettin’ a handjob.”

Matthew snorted out his beer, and Francis hit his back comfortably.

“Right guys,” Gilbert began, spreading his arms wildly, “First things first- Skinny dipping.”

“Skinny dipping.” Arthur repeated slowly, frowning at the sea.

“Yeah. Come on. It’s only us here. What are you guys? A bunch of pussies?” Gilbert laughed.

“I’m not.” Mathias said boldly, gesturing to his chest, ignoring the scoff from Lukas.

“Oh, my God.” Michelle groaned, scratching at her forehead and averting her gaze from the half-naked boys, eyes wide.

 “Coolio!”  Antonio pronounced, jumping a little next to the frowning Chiara.

“I’ll race ya.” Gilbert challenged, and peeled off his shirt, basking in the loud snort of Elizabeta.

“Yo!” Mathias pointed at him, took Lukas’s hand and dragging him with him, enjoying his snort of amusement. They began to laugh as he ran with the other boys towards the sea, shedding clothing as they ran, arms and limbs flailing.

After frowning at the water for a while and squinting at the sky, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, Chiara turned to look at Elizabeta and Michelle.

“Don’t be pussies.” She grinned wickedly, and began to run to the water, shrieking and pulling her shirt and shorts off.

“Well, might as well.” Michelle sighed, and took Elizabeta’s hand as they laughed and splashed loudly in the water.

“Fuck it. Come on Matthew!” Francis said with an elegant laugh as Matthew protested slightly before taking a hasty sip from his beer and running with him.

“Wait for me, my dears!” Francis said loudly, resulting to French as he reached the water, splashing the others and shoving them into the sea.

Next to the van, Arthur frowned at the smiling Alfred.

“No.” He resulted.

“Alfred...” He warned him as he began to have a pleading look in his eyes.

“Fine.” Alfred sighed, bouncing on his feet.

 “So....” Alfred began.

“Hm?”

“There’s a car behind us.” Alfred gestured to the van.

“Yes,” Arthur replied shortly, glaring at Alfred underneath his sunglasses, “Well done.”

“What would you say... If I, hypothetically, said that I wanted to, hypothetically, make out in that car? With you, obviously.” Alfred said, leaning on the door of the van and smiling dirtily at Arthur.

“That would be a hypothetical ‘Fuck yes’, dearest.” Arthur sighed, opening the door and pulling Alfred on top of him as he spread himself on the seat, enjoying the low laugh that Alfred replied with.

:::

Minutes, or perhaps hours later, Arthur was the first to drag himself of out the van, shirt and hair dishevelled, lips red, small marks on his neck and shoulders. Running a hand through his hair, he jumped at the smooth tone and close proximity of Francis’s voice.

“What’s it like?” He asked, snaking a bare arm around Arthur’s shoulders, which he shrugged off.

“What’s what like?” He sighed.

“Being in love.”

Arthur’s face fell blank for a moment, staring out on the horizon, before turning back to Francis, who smiled at him.

“‘S great. Lovely.” Arthur settled on, expression confused as Francis continued to smile sweetly.

“Hm, I am glad.” He said, and they lapsed into silence, walking forwards, slowly, towards the others who were sitting in a circle-like shape, laughing at some story Mathias was combining.

“Have safe sex.” Francis said before jogging elegantly past him, passing a condom in Arthur’s hand before turning away and leaving Arthur alone.

Sighing, Arthur stopped walking and laughed a little before walking to the others, dropping the condom down the back of Francis’s shirt before sitting down in the empty space next to Matthew, who turned his head and smiled at him, knowingly, around his beer bottle. Arthur shook his head and scoffed lightly, turning to fetch a bottle of his own, but stopped when he surprisingly saw Alfred prop himself next to Arthur, holding two bottles and giving one to Arthur.

Laughing, Arthur let his head fall on his shoulder, and Alfred took a long sip from his beer. It was warm and the bottle was wet, the cooler was cheap and the sun was bright, although it was slowly setting as time went on.

“Gross,” Matthew mutters when he sees Alfred grin into Arthur’s messy and salty hair, “Get a room.”

“I agree.” Chiara nods sternly, “I like this one. What is your name?”

“I already told you. It’s Matthew.”

“Nice. You are nice. Not like this one,” She pointed to Antonio, “He is an asshole. You know what he do? He never opens doors for me?”

“I do!” Antonio tried to intervene.

“He does not.” She continued, “He is asshole!”

Antonio sighed and admitted defeat as she crossed her arms and exhaled sharply.

“Come on, Chiara. Please?” She huffed at his words.

“I’m sorry I didn’t open the door..? You are very beautiful..?” He pleaded, palms open towards her figure.

Mathias laughed at his words, “Ha, you don’t know how to treat a lady. She knows what she wants, Toni.”

“Thank you.” She said calmly, “I owe you blowjob.”

 Matthew snorted out his beer. 

“...What?” She asks, narrowing her bright eyes at him.

“Honey, do you know what that means?” Elizabeta asked after a moment of silence.

“Gilbert teached it to me. It means good gift, yes?” She answered, “Something you give to nice people.”

“Like flowers!” Gilbert spoke up, raising his beer can towards her.

“It means oral sex, love.” Arthur explained, “Dick in mouth.”

Inhaling slowly, her expression slowly changed. Ignoring the hysterical laughter of Mathias and Antonio’s further pleading, she stood up and walked to Gilbert, staring at him and folding her arms.

He remained seated and laughed. “I’m sorry. Fuck it! I’m inadequate. What will you do about it?”

“This!” She answered and surged a hand to squeeze his precious cargo as he screamed in pain, “Aw, fuck!”

Elizabeta laughed loudly, and Michelle sprayed lukewarm beer out of her nose.

:::

As the night came, Lukas and Mathias had collected dry wood and other burnable materials to use for the campfire that Michelle had wanted to insinuate. Using Arthur’s lighter, it had quickly burned, creating a pleasant and warm fire. Antonio had brought his guitar, and a simple, slow melody had filled the air of comfortable silence between the groups and pairs, Chiara to his side and smiling shyly at Antonio’s sparse words of affection in the sparse Italian she had taught him, heavily accented sweet-nonsense littering the clear sky.

Gilbert lay his head down on Elizabeta’s lap as she toyed with his hair.

 “Heaven must be very beautiful.” She whispered.

“Heaven?” Gilbert spoke, “Heaven has no hold over me. I’ve got heaven here. You’re my heaven.”

Elizabeta smiled and leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Pass the vomit bucket,” Arthur interrupted, voice sharp and cynical, “You are such saps.”

“Come on, Arthur,” Michelle replied from underneath Francis’s arm, resting her legs over Matthew’s lap, “I think it’s cute. They are real’ sweet on each other.”

Arthur scoffed, but regardless, did not move his head away from Alfred’s shoulder, nor his hand from his, delicately searching and investigating it while Alfred stared up at the sky.

“Do you know the constellations?” Alfred asked after a moment of silence.

Antonio stopped his playing, and Lukas basked to answer, “No, not here. At home I do.”

“As do I,” Chiara replied, “Where I live, you can go to beach every day and watch the night. It is pretty, but dark. No very many cars or lights, so can see stares very well.”

“Huh,” Alfred mumbled.

Antonio continued to play, fingers nimble and able as Francis took a sip from his wine bottle, the only sounds being his music, the ocean, and the crackle of the fire.

 “If this were the last moment of my life,” Gilbert said slowly, “I would die a happy death.”

“What?” Mathias asked, “That’s a grim thought. Don’t think about death when you’re alive and well, pal!”

“Why not?” He sat up, “It happens to all of us. Why be afraid?”

“I’m not afraid,” Lukas spoke, “I wish I were, but I’m not.”

“Why?” Arthur asked curiously.

“All men have done it, all men will do.” He answered briskly, adjusting his fringe.

“You can’t forgive, you can’t forget. Just gotta deal with what life hits ‘ya when it does.” Alfred said solemnly after a while.

“That’s true,” Matthew nodded, “Too true.”

“Indeed, wise words from a young man.” Francis raised his wine bottle to Alfred with closed eyes.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Arthur mumbled, “‘Just the place to bury a crock of gold, I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.’”

Seeing the stare of confusion from the group, he added, “‘Brideshead Revisted’. It’s a book, a good one.”

“‘S a little sad,” Elizabeta hummed.

“I would like to bury gold here and now, in this moment.” Gilbert complied.

“I would, too,” Antonio nodded, and placed a hand on his guitar again, playing the nonsense melody that carried them into the night.

:::

They had slept in the minivan and Chiara’s car.

Both drivers had been drunk and tired.

Early in the morning, slowly but surely, the seagulls had arrived and ruined the silence of the sea, causing them to drive home early in the morning.

“‘Fathom the ocean, dark and deep,’” Arthur mumbled in the second row of the minivan, and Alfred dropped his head on his shoulder, falling asleep quickly.

“That quote,” Francis asked from next to Matthew, “It sounds familiar.”

“Could be. I don’t even remember where it’s from.” Arthur sighed and stared out of the window, chin grazed by his fingers as he rested his arm on the window of the van, elbow bent, watching the trees and scenery fly by, watching life around him as though he had a camera and were making a film, however, for the first time in his life, he was not a soilless actor, but instead a director, producer, and indeed all of the cast, for he was at the epicentre of a new beginning and he no longer could see his tainted future unfold before him, it was as though the earth were round just so that he could not see past the horizon.

:::

In the dark night days and weeks later, Francis’s phone rang in his spacious and empty room, in the middle of the night.

Propping herself on his elbow, he grumbled, answering after seeing whose number it was, voice laced with sleep, “I swear, Mathias, if this isn’t important-”

 “Hello?” He asked, voice crackling and hoarse, desperate and breathing as though he were a drowning man, “Hello? Francis? Oh, thank god! Something’s happened. It’s Gilbert. I’m- I’m at the hospital with him. He just- In the pub- I- I- There was blood everywhere, oh Jesus, fuck. They say it’s a brain aneurism. They think it’s genetic.  The brother. The brother died of the same thing. Just- Just come. Are you there, Francis? Francis? Hello?”

His phone fell to floor with a loud clang, gasping into the darkness as his eyes stung and his body shook violently.

_Fathom the ocean, dark and deep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iM SO SORRY THIS IS RUSHED BUT I THOUGHT WHY NOT??? POINT OUT MISTAKES PLEASE.


End file.
